


The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Time-Travelers

by blackkat



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Fix-It, Fluff, How To Win Hearts and Overthrow Sith Lords, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27518230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Mace's morning starts with far too much paperwork. Being kidnapped at blaster-point is honestly an improvement.
Relationships: CC-8826 | Neyo/CC-6454 | Ponds, CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo/Lando Calrissian, Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus, Depa Billaba/CC-10/994 | Grey/Styles, Mace Windu/CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives
Comments: 524
Kudos: 2095
Collections: Absolute favourites, Echo&Fives, Jedi Journals





	1. Chapter 1

Mace is going to murder Obi-Wan for his cloak-dropping habit.

Commander Cody is, at the very least, an incredibly detail-oriented and prompt man, and normally Mace appreciates that deeply. At the moment, however, he’s starting down at a pile of itemized reports submitted to the Temple, and the first _page_ is all lost cloaks and torn robes.

This is Obi-Wan’s revenge for breaking up with Qui-Gon, Mace is absolutely sure of it. Delayed, left lying in wait, the same way Obi-Wan has apparently left several hundred cloaks scattered around all the various battlefields he’s visited in the course of this war, but—this is revenge, pure and simple.

Mace doesn’t groan. He doesn’t swear. But he digs his fingers into his temples maybe just a little harder than he otherwise would and closes his eyes, breathing out through his nose. The Order’s various finance officers have already done the hard work; all Mace needs to do is review, check for problems, and resubmit the forms, but—

Obi-Wan’s report alone is fifty pages long, and Mace hasn’t even looked at Anakin's yet.

With a soft clink, Ponds sets a cup of caf down on the corner of his desk, then says with a touch of amusement, “Need backup, sir? Looks like you’re facing down a hell of an enemy there.”

“If I staple Master Kenobi's cloak to his shoulders, do you think I can write it off as a mental break?” Mace asks with perfect sincerity, and Ponds laughs. He sets a hand on Mace's shoulder, and the gesture of comfort would be more convincing if Mace couldn’t feel all the amusement he’s radiating.

“Want to pass me half?” he offers, meeting Mace's narrow gaze with a raised brow. “Two sets of eyes should help, right?”

Mace sighs, but sinks back in his chair. “No, but thank you, Commander,” he says. “You’ve earned your leave many times over at this point.”

“So have you, sir,” Ponds says, always easygoing, always stubborn. “If finishing this gets you out of work sooner—”

“Depa will be along shortly to drag me out, regardless of whether I'm finished or not,” Mace says dryly, and checks the time. “I have three hours until her ship lands, and then I won't be getting any work done for the rest of the day.”

“Good,” Ponds says, and when Mace raises a brow at him, he looks unrepentant. “You still want me to bring Lightning here this evening?”

Mace inclines his head, but doesn’t elaborate. If he _tells_ Ponds that he’s going to throw Lightning Squadron right into the crèche and let the younglings climb all over them, Ponds will panic, but setting it up as an ambush means Ponds won't have time to overthink, and will actually enjoy himself. Mace has heard Razor’s stories about Ponds in the nurseries on Kamino, about how much he enjoyed the duty, and Mace himself enjoys the crèche when he’s had a hard mission. This will be good for Ponds and Lightning as a whole.

“I've had the kitchens prepare to feed several dozen clone troopers,” he says. “You won't need to worry about returning to the barracks in time for the evening meal.”

Ponds knows him well enough to give him a wary look, even as he steps back from the desk. “Keeping secrets is a dangerous business, sir,” he says, pointed, but Mace is unmoved.

“Enjoy your day off, Commander,” he says pointedly, and Ponds pulls a face at him but picks his helmet up off the other chair.

“Don’t murder General Kenobi,” he tells Mace. “You'll have to deal with General Skywalker if you do.”

“Staples don’t constitute murder,” Mace says in vague self-defense, but Ponds gives him an entirely unimpressed look and he sighs. “Yes, sir.”

Ponds flushes faintly. “ _General_ ,” he protests.

With a snort, Mace waves him off, and Ponds rolls his eyes, then jams his helmet on and turns, marching out of Mace's office with all the offended dignity of a man who knows that Mace knows about his relationship with Neyo and all the kinks therein. It makes Mace smile, just a little, and he considers sending a gift to Ponds and Neyo's shared quarters, just because. Maybe flowers, or chocolates. Neyo likes sweets, despite his general appearance that suggests he’s the type to be fonder of chewing nails.

Then his eyes catch on a neatly itemized list of all the starfighters Obi-Wan has managed to destroy in the last six months and he groans, rubbing at his forehead as he pulls the forms back towards himself.

Depa will save him, he tells himself. Depa will be here before noon, and just like she always does, she’ll sweep into the office, rescue him from his paperwork, and drag him off to his quarters to sprawl out on his couch and complain about her mission while Grey and Styles hover awkwardly, like they’re expecting to get tossed out on their ears for daring to get swept along in Depa's wake. As if Mace hasn’t been getting swept along in Depa's wake since the moment he found her and Sar.

Mace channels his irritation at Obi-Wan’s inability to stop dropping his clothing everywhere by mentally writing a passive-aggressive note with comparisons to Kit Fisto—comparisons which cast Kit in a positive light, because at least _he_ takes to wearing swim trunks under his cloak when he knows he’s going to be swimming—as he tallies up the cost of losses on the first page, finds it’s correct, and moves on. The next page is simpler, if only because Obi-Wan has stopped wearing armor over the course of the war, and Mace rolls his eyes a little at that, adding an unfavorable comparison to Quinlan into his mental letter. That, at least, might motivate Obi-Wan to change something—his quiet rivalry with his best friend is usually enough to get him to agree to things he might otherwise not bother with.

Mace is squinting down at a series of requests for excess tea that _can't_ be right—because otherwise he desperately needs to stage an intervention for the sake of Obi-Wan’s sleep schedule—when the door hisses open, and the familiar thump of heavy boots on the stone sounds, alongside the creak of armor. Some distracted fraction of Mace's brain immediately jumps from those sounds straight to safety, so he doesn’t bother looking up. Ponds generally wanders in and out of his office for an hour or two before finally giving up and leaving, in the name of bringing Mace caf and seeing to tiny details that don’t actually require his attention. It’s such a ritual at this point that he automatically nudges his caf mug towards the far side of the desk, only to have something hot splash over his elbow.

Startled, Mace pauses, because the cup is still full. More than that, it’s not even cold yet, so he hasn’t lost time between Ponds’s last visit and now. So—

He looks up, right into the barrel of a blaster.

There's a moment of frozen silence as Mace stares at the clone on the other side of his desk. He’s wearing completely white armor, helmet unmarked even with battalion colors, but the way he holds himself and his weapon makes Mace absolutely sure he’s not a shiny.

He’s also so full of terror and horror and grief that Mace can hardly breathe through the press of his emotions.

Slowly, Mace looks from the man’s featureless helmet to the weapon aimed between his eyes, and then says evenly, “Trooper, I don’t believe this is a good idea.”

The blaster doesn’t even waver, despite the tremor Mace can feel that runs through the man. For a moment he’s all rage and fear, thick and choking, and Mace has to contain a wince. “Sorry, General Windu,” the clone says, ragged. “Get up.”

Mace is carrying his lightsaber. He could likely manage to draw and ignite it before the trooper could fire, but he’s not Bultar, brilliant at disarming without injuring. And the very last thing he wants to do is injure a clone who’s already so clearly in distress. His office is small, as well, and deflecting blaster bolts in close quarters is never the best idea if he’s trying to keep casualties down.

There are no other clones waiting, either. Just this one, full of terror, all alone in the middle of the Jedi Temple and threatening Mace with a blaster.

Deliberately, Mace puts his hands flat on the desk and carefully pushes to his feet, moving as slowly as he can. The fact that he’s a good head taller than the trooper makes the man tense, alarm spiking, but Mace doesn’t make any movements, just stays where he is, waiting for more direction.

There's a shaky breath, a faint tremor that makes the blaster barrel waver for the barest instant before it steadies again. “Don’t move,” the trooper warns, and circles around the side of the desk. The blaster presses into Mace's ribs, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t waver as the clone shoves his robes back with fumbling fingers, grabbing the lightsaber from his belt and then quickly retreating four long steps. He doesn’t try to leave it on the desk or hide it anywhere, but slides it into one pouches on his belt. Mace watches it disappear, displeased to be relieved of the weapon he’s carried for literal decades at this point, because he’s not Obi-Wan and he makes a point to try and always keep his blade close at hand, but he doesn’t protest. The trooper seems like he’s about to have a heart attack, panic rising like a wave, and—

Well. Mace isn't going to hurt him. He should probably make that clear.

“Trooper,” he says calmly, and that blank helmet, almost jarring to see after so long with Lightning Squadron, jerks up to focus on him. The man’s blaster rises, aimed at Mace's head, and Mace eyes it for a long moment, refusing to react, and then asks, “What do you hope to achieve by killing me?”

Shock ricochets through the trooper like scattering shrapnel, and the blaster dips. “I'm not going to _kill you_!” he says, and there’s true horror in his voice, in his being. “I'm—I'm not—this isn't an assassination attempt!”

Mace breathes out. That’s…good. Better than he was expecting, honestly. “I see,” he says. “My mistake. Then what is this meant to be?”

There's a ragged breath, loud through the helmet’s filters, and the clone takes a step forward. His hand goes back to his belt, and Mace tenses, ready for him to pull out the lightsaber—

“Put these on,” the clone says, and tosses a pair of binders at Mace. Mace catches them, wary, and gives them a quick glance. They're high-end, definitely not GAR standard, and Mace can feel the low hum of electricity through them. It’s a clever choice, and speaks to a fair amount of forethought going into this—electric shocks disrupt concentration, and these are likely much harder for a Force-user to get out of than normal binders.

Of course, Mace can see precisely where to hit them to break them completely, but most Jedi wouldn’t be able to without specialized training.

“Binders,” Mace says, raising a brow. If the trooper intends to march him through the Temple wearing cuffs—

“Put your hands in your sleeves,” the trooper says, and there's a note of steel in his voice that’s almost surprising. “You walk like that a lot. No one will notice.”

There’s definitely been forethought here, and reconnaissance. Certainly not a shiny, then, Mace thinks, and weighs what’s going on here. He could knock the trooper out, or simply immobilize him, but he still feels like he’s about to shake apart at the seams, or maybe like he’s about to cry. The grief and horror around him are sharp, gutting, and Mace doesn’t want this to escalate. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone here, either.

“This is a kidnapping,” the trooper says, all dogged desperation. Mace can feel him swallow, the edge of _oh kriff oh kriff what am I doing_ that surges, and then the determination that crystalizes in its wake. He firms, steadies, and warns, “I’ll shoot you and whoever we come across if you try to warn them.”

A lie, Mace thinks. He’s gotten good at picking them out over the years, and—that was a blatant lie. There's no intent to do harm in this man. And…

Mace casts a glance down at his desk, at the stack of datapads, and gets one eyeful of an endless list of requisitioned cloaks. Instantly, he flips the binders open, fitting them over his wrists.

“A kidnapping,” he repeats, not about to fight it. If this man _does_ get pushed into a corner and reacts badly, there are too many children here, too many potential hostages. Mace will go along with his, let the trooper get them somewhere more secluded, and then try to reason with him. Or, should that go poorly—and there's every chance it will, because Mace is a _terrible_ negotiator—he can subdue the man and see what all of this is about.

“Yeah,” the trooper says, probably trying for aggressive, but Mace just feels his desperation and rising despair as he tries to calculate how to make Mace go along with his orders. “Now put them on.”

Mace clicks them shut, then sucks in a breath as a crackle of electricity washes over him. It _stings_ , and he flinches a little despite himself.

Instantly, without hesitation, a different type of horror flares through the trooper. He crosses to Mace's side, blaster dipping, and grips the binders. Twists something until it clicks, and the electricity dies away. Relief makes Mace's breath come a little harder than it should, and the clone winces, his hand going tight around Mace's forearm.

“Sorry,” he says, and the word cracks. “Sorry, General Windu, just—please don’t fight. Please.”

He doesn’t mean harm, Mace thinks, and wants to reach for him, put a hand on his shoulder, soothe the fluttering dread and fear that are bitter on his tongue. That likely won't help, though, so he just inclines his head, folding his hands into his sleeves and hiding the cuffs as best he can. “I won't, but please don’t involve anyone else in the Temple.”

“I won't,” the trooper says, ragged. It has the weight of a promise behind it. “I won't hurt them. Just—you have to come with me.” He reaches out, tugging at Mace's sleeves until the binders are fully hidden, and Mace catches a glimpse of a tattoo on the bare centimeter of skin between gauntlet and vambrace. It’s still raw and red, but it’s hidden again a moment later as the trooper pulls away. He keeps one hand on his blaster, and says, “You first, General. Towards the landing pad on the north side.”

Letting an armed man walk behind him isn't precisely comfortable, and Mace considers for a moment, then says, “You have my word as a Jedi that I won't make any attempt to escape while we’re in the Temple. Why don’t you lower your blaster and walk beside me?”

Panic slides up again, rising like a wave. The clone’s breath comes shorter, harder, and his grip tightens on his weapon. “I'm not—your _word_ ,” he says. “I have—there are explosives rigged in the training salles, I can activate them if you try _anything_.”

Also a lie, but a desperate one. Mace considers him, a little startled by the lengths he’s willing to go to in order to get Mace out of the Temple, but also surprised that they're entirely toothless. They're threats, not the reality, and the man himself recoils a little in horror on the inside when he says them. There's a half-second flare of images, ranks of troopers marching on the Temple, dark banners, _bodies_ —

And then the visions are firmly shut away, locked behind a durasteel wall until they won't affect the trooper. Mace knows that kind of mental control, that reaction. This is a soldier used to battlefields, used to horrors. But whatever he saw, it spooked him to the point that he’s willing to march into the heart of the Order and kidnap Mace. Surely that’s something to be concerned about.

“You have my word,” Mace says evenly, and steps forward. The trooper takes two paces back, opening the door, and lets Mace precede him out of the office. But his blaster lowers, and a moment later he slings it over his shoulder to hang behind him, and he quickens his pace just slightly to catch up with Mace. A hand presses against Mace's thigh, half-hidden between the fall of Mace's robes and the trooper’s body, but Mace can feel the cold edge of a knife held ready.

Definitely not a shiny, he thinks, and keeps his pace absolutely steady and even as he walks.

“You must have done your research,” he says mildly, keeping his eyes fixed ahead of them. “The secondary landing pad is normally the quietest. It’s where the classes of initiates go to try the simulator.”

The choked rasp of the trooper’s breath has more in common with a sob than anything else. “I know,” he gets out. “They were—when I got here. They were all laughing.”

Another crack in his voice. Mace breathes through the ricochet of grief that collapses around them, trying not to let his vision swim with that echoed edge of bodies on the ground in the darkness. Small bodies, he thinks, and has to breathe out through his nose. Just images, just thoughts, but—

He has to wonder how this trooper saw them. There's no record of any clones being Force-sensitive, but then, it also doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that the Kaminoans would be rigorous about testing for. Or maybe Mace is simply seeing things through his own bias as a Jedi, and there’s a more mundane explanation. War crimes witnessed, perhaps, or military corruption. Mace loves the Republic so deeply that that love is embedded in his bones, but that’s hardly the same thing as thinking it’s without flaw.

“To the left,” Mace says quietly. “That hallway leads through the residential quarters on this floor and straight to the landing pad. The lift is usually crowded this time of day.”

The clone’s breath shakes, but he nods tightly, nudging Mace left. There's no hesitation in trusting Mace, which is interesting, but Mace was telling the truth regardless. If the man is asked to climb into a lift with a half-dozen Jedi, Mace is worried he might do damage to himself.

“You thought I was someone,” the trooper says, low. “When I came in. Who?” He’s so tense it seems like he’s about to crack down the middle, but the knife is still steady against Mace's side. There’s a weak point right above the hilt, and if Mace turned, blocked the stab of it with his cuffs right where the metal meets the wiring, both would break in a single blow.

He doesn’t look for the trooper’s shatterpoint. That’s never the kind of thing he likes to know.

“My commander,” Mace says, and hears someone open a door behind them as they pass but doesn’t look back. “Commander Ponds. The 91st is on leave this week, and he enjoys spending time in the Temple.”

There's a long pause, and then the clone says, choked, almost dazed, “Commander Ponds is still alive?”

Mace weighs his answer carefully, trying to decide how best to respond. Ponds has been in plenty of life-or-death situations, but none that have ever resulted in him being assumed dead. “Yes,” he finally settles on. “Alive and well. He’s going to be very disappointed that I didn’t finish my paperwork.”

The trooper’s laugher is choked, almost unrecognizable for what it is. “He’ll survive,” he says, and there's a weight to the words that gives them more meaning than Mace can guess at. “I—”

“Master Windu!” a voice calls, and running footsteps sound. The trooper tenses, but Mace just turns, watching the pair of younglings approaching with a raised brow.

“Katooni, Ganodi,” he says. “I thought you had class.”

“Master Allie let us out early,” Ganodi says. “Master, since you're back in the Temple, does that mean you're going to have your theater class this week?”

The trooper is frozen beside him, unmoving, and Mace doesn’t hesitate. Even though he’s sure the trooper doesn’t have evil intentions, he puts himself between the clone and the girls, wanting to preempt any potential disasters.

“I’m afraid not,” Mace says gravely. “I feel in the Force that I may be called away in the next few days, so it will be delayed until my next return to the Temple.”

“Oh,” Katooni says, obviously disappointed, but she still offers him a smile. “We’ll be looking forward to it then, Master.”

Mace smiles back, just a little, all too aware of the trooper at his back who’s about to start shaking. “Thank you and Ganodi for your interest. Would you be willing to do something for me?”

The trooper sucks in a sharp breath, but before he can do more than twitch forward, Ganodi nods quickly, her eyes bright. “Of course, Master Windu.”

“Thank you,” Mace tells them, and kneels down, making himself vulnerable, making it hard to move quickly in the hopes that the trooper will recognize the action for the surrender it is. “Madame Nu has all of my scripts in her possession, for safekeeping. Would you pick the one for our next class? I'm afraid I won't have time.”

Katooni makes a sound of excitement and grabs Ganodi’s hand. “Of _course_ , Master Windu!” she says brightly. “We’d love to!”

“Yeah!” Ganodi agrees. “Thank you, Master!”

“Of course, and thank you.” Mace smiles at them, then rises, deliberately stepping back into the trooper’s space. Into his knife, more importantly. “May the Force be with you.”

“Force protect you, Master Windu!” Ganodi says, and a moment later she and Katooni are practically bolting down the hall, tripping over each other and laughing.

There's a moment of silence as Mace watches them go, and then he breathes out, inclines his head to the trooper. “Madame Nu won’t suspect anything,” he says. “I usually let the younglings pick the plays.”

The trooper’s hand closes around his arm, just above the elbow. “Okay,” he says, and it still sounds ragged, still sounds like he can't get the words out right. “Just. Keep moving.”

“All right,” Mace says, not quite gently, but certainly not curt. He lets the trooper steer him down the otherwise empty hall all the way to where the corridors branch, then across a wide platform and out onto the landing pad. There’s a GAR speeder sitting there, in Coruscant Guard colors, and Mace has to raise a brow at the sight of it, because he doesn’t think the trooper is a Guard, but the odds that the speeder was lent out are miniscule. More likely it’s been stolen, and that’s a feat in and of itself.

“In. behind the wheel,” the trooper says, and pulls his blaster forward. There's a senior padawan on the far side of the platform, tinkering with a fighter, and she leans up on one elbow, frowning a little. A Zeltron, so Mace isn't surprised she noticed something, but he deliberately keeps his eyes forward, slides into the speeder without pause, and lets the clone climb into the passenger’s seat before he starts the engine.

The blaster coming to rest against his side isn't a surprise, and Mace doesn’t flinch.

“Fly,” the trooper orders, low. “Towards Coco Town.”

Mace lifts them off the platform, not bothering to look back at where the padawan is rising. He doesn’t think the trooper sees her, or if he does he has contingencies that he’s confident in. Some of his nerves even ease as they slip into the stream of traffic, replaced by a jittery, bewildered sense of success. Mace wants to glance over at him, wants to see what other clues he can pick up, but he keeps his eyes on the traffic—

“Left,” the trooper orders, quick, with the authority of someone used to issuing orders. Then, sharp, there's a jerk of surprise, like he startled himself, but Mace just makes the left without pause, steering them in the opposite direction of the Senate.

“Coco Town is east of here,” he says blandly.

“I said _towards_ Coco Town, not _to_ Coco Town,” the trooper counters, and Mace snorts. He hardly objects to being somewhere with fewer people than under the feet of the Senate, though, when it comes to the chance to deescalate things.

“And is there a particular place that I'm going?” he asks dryly.

There's a second’s pause, but it’s not the clone wavering. He’s waiting, and Mace can feel him watching the buildings as they pass, counting.

“Here,” he finally says. “The platform by the third lane. Land there.”

Mace does as he’s instructed, holding still as the clone slides out of the speeder and then jerks his head, still tense and twitchy. “This way, General,” he says, and Mace joins him on the empty platform, letting the trooper push him towards the door. The building itself seems equally empty, with no people that Mace can sense, and he eyes it a little warily, but the blaster jabs him in the back and he moves obediently, following the narrow corridor towards the center of the building. The trooper moves like he knows the place perfectly, and he steers Mace right into a lift, then down at least ten levels. The lift shudders dangerously, and Mace sees rather too many shatterpoints for comfort, but he holds his tongue as the thing comes to a slow, shuddering stop.

The scanner by the door lights up, and the trooper pulls off his gauntlet, pressing his hand to the screen. Instantly, the door slides open, and he takes a step out, then turns to Mace, beckoning him to move. With a wary glance, Mace steps out into a room that’s almost entirely bare except for a pile of armor in one corner.

It’s not the blank, unmarked armor the trooper is wearing. It’s blue, battered and clearly something that’s seen many battlefields, and there's a _kama_ striped with blue and grey lying neatly on top. An ARC trooper, then, Mace thinks, and breathes out. Not a shiny at all. He turns—

The clone pulls off his helmet, letting it drop, and he looks even more battered than his armor, half-wild with the same grief and terror that Mace can still feel swirling around. His eyes are red, his face tear-streaked, and there's something to his mouth that looks like nothing less than pure anguish.

“Sorry about this, General,” he says, and steps forward. “I couldn’t let him get you. Not _again_.”

Mace stops, startled. “ _Get_ me?” he asks. “Who would—”

Faster than Mace can dodge, the ARC lunges, and the thing in his hand comes clear a half-second too late. The hypo takes Mace in the side of his neck, and everything goes black, but—

The ARC trooper catches him before he can hit the floor, and the last thing Mace can feel is armored arms clutching him close.

The last thing he hears is a hoarse, ragged, “You were the one who beat him, General. You're the only one who _can_.”


	2. Chapter 2

Fives has a plan, and a ship waiting, and a hell of a lot of reasons to move quickly—namely, all of Lightning Squadron and the entirety of the Jedi Order—but he’s still sitting on his ass. He’s still sitting on his ass, not doing _anything_. But—

It worked, Fives thinks, and the body in his arms is too solid to be an illusion, too warm to be a dream. _Mace Windu_ is in his arms, breathing steadily, perfectly still, and Fives wraps his arms around him a little tighter, clutches the ridiculously powerful and intimidating Master of the Order to his chest as best he can. Mace is real, _alive_ , and even people like Ponds are alive, still here. Fives came back in time to save _all_ of them.

Fives buries his nose in tan robes, breathes in. Thinks about Mace's heartbeat under his fingertips, and not the Temple. Not the younglings, running and laughing instead of still and dead. If Fives had wanted to reach out and touch them, he could have.

This time, his fingers wouldn’t have come back covered in blood.

The memory of that horrible helplessness, that fury and pain of watching his _brothers_ become nothing but puppets and be used to execute the Jedi, makes Fives's breath rattle in his lungs, and he swallows a sound that doesn’t know if it wants to be a sob or a snarl. He clutches Mace closer, pulls him as close as he can physically get, and—

He should be moving. This is just a layover to retrieve his armor and disguise Mace. They can't stay. But Fives can't make himself let go, either.

Mace was the one hope the galaxy had of defeating the Sith Lord, and Anakin betrayed him. _Anakin Skywalker_ got Mace killed, let Palpatine hurl him out a window, and Fives had tried, _tried_ to catch him before he fell, but his fingers slipped. He couldn’t hold on. Fives had to _watch_ as Mace hit, as he died there on the stone.

It doesn’t feel like exaggeration to say that the whole Republic died with him.

Fives wonders how many times Mace died that Fives _wasn’t_ there to see it. Wonders where the trigger point is, for everything to fall apart, and if that’s it. Last time—

But at this point Fives isn't even sure that _was_ the last time. They're starting to blur together.

With a muttered curse, he jerks off the gauntlet he stole from a Guard shiny, holding his wrist up to the light. The five tallies are still there, the tattoos still fresh and stinging, but Fives presses his fingers to them, breathes out. Looks down at Mace, unconscious and vulnerable, and grimaces. Fives can see the hypo mark in his throat, the bruise from an incautious and messy injection, and it’s like seeing him wince as the cuffs lit up with electricity.

None of this is about hurting him. It’s the _last_ thing Fives wants to do.

“Sorry, General,” he says roughly, and shifts, carefully laying Mace out on the floor. He probably has twenty minutes before someone notices the Guard speeder parked on the landing—less, maybe, depending on what the Jedi who spotted them on the platform does. But Fives has been planning this for—days, maybe, and he’s got the timing down. Mace coming with him without a struggle speeded everything up, too, even with the pause to speak to those younglings.

Fives's hands don’t shake as he unlocks the binders and strips off Mace's outer robes, but they want to. He doesn’t remember seeing those younglings in particular in the Temple after the 501st marched on it, but his imagination is more than happy to sub them in for some of the bodies he moved. Bleeding, dead, so still, and Shaak Ti in the crèche, where she tried to defend the youngest but was killed by the troopers she helped train, the troopers who loved her like she was _their_ general regardless of what battalion they ended up in.

They killed the youngest initiates, too. Fives hadn’t been able to bear going into the room, but he saw the aftermath.

But, Fives thinks, almost desperately, and digs his pack out from underneath his armor. The younglings he just saw were almost old enough to be padawans. Maybe they were out of the Temple when Anakin led his troops on it. Maybe they had a _chance_.

They’ll have more of one this time.

The soft brocade of the clothes Fives pulls out catches on his fingertips, on the knuckles of his gauntlets, and he strips them off, then tosses them towards the unmarked helmet. Wearing all white again is jarring, and Fives hates it, though he’s aware of the advantages. No one’s going to be able to pick him out if they look at the security footage, and he already disabled all the cameras in this room. Assuming the Guard notices their lost speeder before he gets Mace away, they _still_ won't be able to get to this room without Fives's fingerprints, and they’ll have to break into ten other floors before they can even get down here.

By the time they do, Fives will already have them on a shuttle out of here, and he won't look back.

“Sorry about this, General,” Fives says quietly, tugging Mace up and pulling the heavy coat up his arms. It’s awkward with Mace as a deadweight, but Fives was already pushing his luck just walking him this far; Mace beath the _Sith Lord_ , and he would have killed him if Anakin hadn’t betrayed him. If Anakin hadn’t betrayed the whole Republic.

The sheer fact that Fives was able to cuff Mace and walk him out of the Temple is already bewildering enough.

It makes his chest twinge a little, to think of it. The Jedi generally notice when they're in danger, and Mace _didn’t_. He thought that the sounds of armor meant that Fives was Ponds, that it was safe, and—just thinking of what’s coming in light of that makes Fives's hands shake as he buttons the coat up over Mace's undershirt. The disguise is heavy and ornate and kind of gaudy, stolen from a senator who was about Mace's size, and it looks different enough from anything Mace would normally wear that Fives decides it’s good enough.

He hesitates over Mace's tunics and sashes for a moment, curling his fingers into the soft cloth. Looks from them to Mace, then back to the robes, and—

Just the thought of stealing another clone’s painted armor makes his skin crawl. Taking a Jedi's lightsaber is bad enough, because Fives _knows_ they don’t tend to own anything else. But leaving Mace's robes here feels just as wrong, and Fives breathes in, breathes out, and folds the tan cloth quickly, shoving it into his pack. Mace's belt pouches and lightsaber fit, too, once Fives pulls out the headwrap he lifted from Anakin's rooms on board the cruiser. It’s Senator Amidala’s, but it’s a dark blue without much embroidery, and when Fives wraps it over and around Mace's head like he’s seen people do on some of the planets they were stationed on, it hides him well enough and doesn’t look too terrible. It hides the hypo mark, too, and when Fives adds a pair of gloves, there's not a lot of skin showing. It’s not _perfect_ , but it’s a hell of a lot better than Fives was expecting.

The fact that that’s been something of a theme today isn't quite enough to give Fives hope, but it’s a good sign.

Disguise finished with, Fives rises to his feet, checks the time to make sure he doesn’t have to administer another dose of the sedative yet, and lets himself feel the flicker of relief when he realizes it’s only been a few minutes. Quickly, he strips off the rest of the shiny’s armor, leaving it in a pile by the helmet, and pulls his own on. The helmet is last, and he settles it with a short, sharp exhale that’s equal parts grim regret and determination. Echo is going to murder Fives as soon as he catches up, and he _will_ , even if he has to go rogue to do it. Fives almost told him, but—

There was no possible way to explain in the amount of time Fives had, so avoiding him was easier. And that way, Fives didn’t have to think about Echo _leaving_ , going with the Bad Batch after his miraculous survival and leaving Fives behind.

It hasn’t happened. It _won't_. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.

Echo never makes it out of the Citadel. No matter what Fives has tried. It just doesn’t _work_. If the generals take the mission, Echo either dies or gets captured.

But they still have time to change things. Ponds is still alive. Fives hadn’t even thought to hope that he would wake up so soon this time around, but that means it’s even earlier in the war than he thought. Spar and his Supercommandos are probably only just now taking over Mandalore, and that’s all the opening Fives needs to get Mace somewhere safe and far away from Coruscant.

The sedative should hold for now, and Fives got one that specifically worked on Korun biology, so he leaves the binders under the shiny’s armor and pulls Mace up again, sliding an arm beneath his back and hauling him up into his arms. Mace is tall and lanky, not as broad as a clone but a decent amount taller, and it takes Fives a minute to get all of his limbs settled, but after a moment of struggling he manages well enough. The lift opens to a jab of his elbow, and Fives gets them in, then leans back against the wall as it starts to sink again, trying not to clutch too desperately at Mace.

He did it, though. He got Mace out of the Temple, out of _danger_. Now he just needs to get them as far away from the Chancellor as possible.

In full armor, there's no way to touch skin, no way to tell that Mace is still breathing except the readout on Fives's HUD. Still, Fives hitches him up a little, letting Mace's head rest on his shoulder, and tips his head down, touching his forehead to Mace's. Just breathes for a moment, trying to focus on his plans, but—

This is going to work. If Fives can get them away before something changes, if he can upend whatever factors lead to a reset, he can actually change things this time.

“You'll be safe, General,” he says, and curls his fingers over Mace's ribs. Tries not to think about Mace looking up into his blaster, Mace thinking Fives was there to _murder_ him, because this is more important. This is the _most_ important thing right now.

With a gentle chime, the lift comes to a stop, opening out into a covered section of street that runs beneath the edges of three buildings. The next one over is a kind of seedy hotel, and Fives waits in the lift until the doors of the hotel open to spill out a gaggle of women laughing with each other, then slides out and into their wake. The cameras here are broken; Fives made sure of that, and just looking like he’s coming from the hotel should be enough to throw off most people on the street.

As an added bonus, the hotel has air-cars waiting, hovering at the edge of the walkway as they wait for customers. Fives heads straight for the closest one, trying to shift Mace to open the door, only to have the pilot notice and trigger it for him.

“Hey,” the Devaronian woman warns, her gaze flickering from Fives's armor to Mace's coat. “I only work for credits, not charity.”

“You think _I'm_ carting him around for charity?” Fives counters, and sets Mace down on the seat before he pulls a credit chip out of his belt pouch and flips it to her.

The woman laughs, scanning it and tossing it back. “Bodyguard?” she asks. “Or you take a fancy bastard for a ride? Heard fun things about clone stamina.”

Fives has never been able to lie, or even vaguely bullshit, so he just scoffs loudly and leaves it at that, even as his heart races. It still gets a snort of amusement from the woman, and she tips her head and asks, “Where to, loverboy?”

“The Senate’s port,” Fives says, and even with all his nerves he’s probably red under his helmet. The potential of getting caught is enough to keep him from tripping over his own tongue, but he still feels like he’s about to blurt out something stupid, so he firmly bites his tongue and focuses on getting Mace settled. The headwrap is still in place, thankfully, and doesn’t show any signs of slipping, and his pulse is still slow and even. He shouldn’t need another dose for an hour, but Fives isn't exactly willing to leave things up to chance. With his luck, Mace will open his eyes, snatch the lightsaber out of Fives's pack, and stab Fives in the face the second he looks away.

That he’s gotten away with this much already is probably entirely down to the fact that Mace is a hell of a lot kinder than Fives was expecting.

Then again, Fives thinks grimly, tipping his head back against the seat, he went in expecting Mace to react like Anakin, and—that was probably a mistake. Anakin wasn’t a Jedi. Not when it came down to it. If he was, he wouldn’t have killed the younglings and used _his own men_ to do it.

None of them would _ever_ have done that of their own free will, and Fives thinks of that moment, of the feeling of something clicking over in his mind and making him think _traitor traitor traitor_ like a metronome every time he so much as _thought_ about the Jedi, and wants t be sick. Anakin didn’t even _care_ that it was so violently against anything the clones would have agreed with, even the most hardline ones. He hadn’t cared, and he’d used them, and next time they meet Fives is going to put a blaster bolt in him somewhere it will really make an impact.

Against Fives's shoulder, Mace twitches. Instantly, Fives drags himself back, checks Mace's vitals, and only breathes out when he finds they’re unchanged. He sets his jaw, gets a grip on his anger, and wraps his arm around Mace a little more tightly, reminding himself that Jedi are empaths. Thinking calming thoughts seems a little silly, but—

Whatever he can do to make this easier for Mace, he will. Mace is valuable. Mace is _precious_. He’s the champion of the Order, and not even Master Yoda nearly beat Palpatine the way Mace did. And if he _knows_ the fight is coming, he’ll be even more prepared.

Fives will see to it personally that Anakin isn't there to interfere this time. No matter what.

“Looks like something’s happening,” the pilot says, interested, and Fives opens his eyes and leans forward, only to freeze at the sight of familiar armor gleaming in the sun. Thorn is alive, too, apparently, and he’s standing at the edge of the lane into the Senate, Fox beside him. A trace of fear curls in Fives's chest, remembered pain and terror, and he has to swallow, digging his fingers into brocade cloth.

“That’s a lot of the Guard out,” he says, and has to snap his mouth shut on the impulse to blab any more. It _is_ a lot of Guards, that’s the absolute truth.

“Well, they don’t seem to be stopping traffic,” she says optimistically. “Any part of the port in particular you're aiming for?”

“Platform 126,” Fives answers, not able to look away from where Fox and Thorn are talking. Logically, he knows it’s probably a training exercise, not an alert about a kidnapped Jedi Master reaching them already, but it still makes his skin prickle, makes him sink a little further into the seat so they won't see him through the window. The 501st is on leave for another two days, and Fives had very loudly told Echo and Hardcase and Jesse all about going to one of the bars that don’t cater specifically to clones and picking someone up, so hopefully they won't look for him or comm him for a while, and if someone _does_ see him with a senatorial-looking person they’ll write it off, but—better not to risk it.

“Your friend is really out of it,” the pilot notes, glancing back as they make the turn around the Senate. She’s smirking, though, and that eases at least a little of Fives's instinctive panic. “What did you do, drug him?”

“Yeah, obviously. It was definitely drugs,” Fives gets out, and it cracks in his mouth, but thankfully the sound of the speakers covers it.

The woman laughs, steering them off the main track and down a row of ships. “Guess the rumors are true,” she says, and the air-car pulls to a stop beside a sleek-looking light assault cruiser. It’s one of the few in the port not painted red to declare diplomatic neutrality, and Fives desperately memorized the codes that only the Guard is supposed to have. They should work. They _have_ to work.

“Here you go,” the pilot says, and the door slides open. “Need some help with him?”

“I think I've got it,” Fives says. He slides out first, then pulls Mace out after him, hitching him up in his arms and trying not to jostle him too much. “Thanks, though.”

“No problem. He late to a meeting or something?”

“Yeah,” Fives says, a little too quick, and wants to curse himself for it. “Needs to be off Coruscant and headed away, like, two hours ago, but we got caught up and there was a thing with a—with some—uh, butter and then he just kept—”

“Stop, stop!” the pilot says, laughing, and raises her hands. “Have fun, soldier. I've got to get back to my post.”

Fives should probably be grateful he’s not steaming up his own bucket, he’s so red. “Sorry,” he mutters, and it’s hard to slink when carrying a full-grown man, but Fives probably makes a good showing at it as he ducks under the wing of the cruiser. Behind him, the air-car pulls away, back into the stream of light traffic, and Fives waits for a second in the ship’s shadow, listening for any voices close to them. He can't hear any, which is most of the reason for picking this particular ship; it’s in the middle of being retrofitted with new weapons, so no one’s going to look for it immediately, and this part of the port is the quietest. The fact that no one will peg it as having come from Coruscant is just a bonus.

After a full five minutes of no sounds from nearby platforms, Fives breathes out, hitches Mace up a little higher, and taps his comm into the ship’s computer. It requests the access code, and Fives winces, but puts it in, nerves prickling as he waits. There's nothing, nothing—

With a hiss of escaping air, the ramp descends, and Fives sags, closing his eyes and getting his arms fully around Mace again. His pulse is pounding, and there's that same tension singing up his spine that makes him want to curl up in a ball somewhere, but—it worked. It _worked_.

Quickly, Fives leaps up the ramp, closing it behind himself and heading straight for one of the chairs. He lowers Mace into it, hesitates over whether to give him another dose of the sedative, and then decides it should be fine. Getting them off the ground is more important, and he activates the ship’s systems as he heads for the front at a jog, throwing himself into the pilot’s chair and calling up the controls. The make of the ship is familiar, even if Fives has never flown this particular version before, and he runs through the checks, then starts the liftoff, paging the control tower with Anakin's code. The answer comes back instantly in the affirmative, and Fives grins, not entirely able to help himself as he keeps to the lane he’s assigned and takes them up. This is—

The affirmative flickers to red, permission suddenly denied, and a warning buzzer sounds. A staticky voice over the comm orders him back to port, and Fives curses desperately, lunging to switch it off. Anakin must have just used his code, or they spotted something wrong with it, and Fives hisses, checks the lane, and sets the engines to full power. They surge up towards open space, and Fives is already inputting the hyperdrive coordinates as they hit the edge of the atmosphere.

There are probably ships on their tail, Fives knows. He’s seen Coruscant’s defenses, knows them, but he’s already in the air and if he just moves _fast_ enough—

A dark-skinned hand reaches past him, making Fives startle almost out of his own skin, and Mace catches himself on the console, flips the comm back on, and says evenly, “I'm sorry, control, I entered the wrong code. Please correct.” He rattles off another code, longer and more complicated, and there's a pause.

“Master Windu, our apologies,” a woman says. “Your pilot seems to be having trouble.”

“I believe you spooked him,” Mace says calmly. “We’re correcting course now.”

With a shaky exhale, Fives loosens his grip on the yoke, easing them back into their lane, and glances at Mace as he staggers a little, sliding into the other chair with a heaviness that says the sedative is still definitely in his system. Fives has no idea what to do; he left the binders back on Coruscant, and he has another dose but—

“There's no need for that,” Mace says without opening his eyes. “I gave you my word I wouldn’t resist.”

Fives wonders how fast he’ll have to move to take a Jedi by surprise. He’s got the edge, probably, since Mace doesn’t have his lightsaber and he’s still groggy, but—Jedi are never predictable, and Mace beat a _Sith Lord_.

“I thought that was just for while we were in the Temple,” Fives says, and he doesn’t grab his hypo, even if it’s tempting. Mace is—he’s not like Anakin. Fives can take him at his word and actually trust that he’ll follow through.

“I won't hurt you,” Mace says, and he’s not moving, just sitting there with deep lines in his face. Something deeply guilty curls in Fives chest, and he has to swallow hard at the sight of that expression. _He_ did that. He hurt Mace, kidnapped him, and Fives _needs_ to get him off of Coruscant and out of Palpatine’s reach, but—

“I'm all right,” Mace says. “Your panic woke me.”

“Sorry,” Fives says helplessly, and looks back at the controls. Mace kept them from probably being shot out of the air. If he hadn’t intervened, the whole plan would have been blown instantly. If Fives hadn’t seen all the horrors that he did, if he didn’t _know_ what was coming, he might be tempted to turn around and let Mace go back to the Temple, back to his kriffing _theater class_ , because of course he’s the kind of man who teaches a theater class.

Still. _Still_. Fives reaches out, doesn’t let himself shake as he punches in the hyperspace coordinates for the Corellia system. They don’t have time for any of this. He needs to get them to Mandalore before Spar joins the Confederacy, needs to find a way to reason with them. Mace will help with that. The Jedi are good negotiators. It will be enough.

“This isn't—it’s not an assassination attempt,” Fives says again, because that sick thought is still lodged in his stomach. If it _had_ been an assassination attempt, it might even have worked. But it wasn’t, and it won't, and Fives is _going_ to keep Mace safe. He has to. “You're in danger, General. I don’t want to hurt you, either.”

Mace opens his eyes, looking straight at Fives. “I know,” he says, steady, even, but hearing it said with such faith makes Fives sink his teeth into his cheek and swallow hard.

“You should sleep off the sedative,” he says, as firm as he can. “We’re going to be in hyperspace for a while. I won't drug you again.”

Mace considers him for a moment longer, then inclines his head. “I assume,” he says, just a little dry, “that I don’t need to wear this thing anymore?” A flick of his fingers indicates the heavy coat.

Despite himself, Fives feels a flicker of humor, desperate and bright. “I thought it looked fancy,” he says, but he pulls his pack off, reaches into it and pulls out Mace's robes.

Something like relief shows in Mace's face just for a moment, and he takes them gravely. “Thank you,” he says, rising, but his balance wavers as he makes it to his feet.

Without a second thought, without hesitation, Fives shoves upright and grabs him by the elbows, holding him steady, and that guilt is _acid_. He just wants to save people, and the Jedi were—

His breath shakes out of him, rattles in his chest, and his fingers go tight on Mace's arms almost against his will. “Sorry,” he says again. “Sorry, I just—”

“It’s all right,” Mace says, and his voice is still perfectly calm, entirely steady. He puts a hand up, resting it on Fives's shoulder and gripping gently. “I know you don’t want to hurt anyone, trooper.”

Mace knows that. Even after Fives threatened him, electrocuted him, _drugged_ him. Even when Fives is _kidnapping_ him, just so that he’ll be able to risk his life _again_ by facing down a Sith Lord. Just so he can save Fives's brothers from what’s going to happen to them. Fives chokes on a sound, and his eyes burn hot. He hunches forward, and without even meaning to he grabs Mace, sinks his fingers into fancy cloth that doesn’t suit a Jedi like Mace. Clings, and he _knows_ he should let go, but—

There's a pause, and then, deliberate, Mace raises an arm. He wraps it around Fives's shoulders, holding onto him, holding him close despite all the things Fives has done, all the things he _failed_ to do through so many times waking up, and Fives _isn't_ going to cry. He already used all of his tears up when Echo died the second time. But, if he were ever going to, it would be now.

“You’ll be fine,” Mace says, and the hand on his back pats lightly, a little awkward, a little uncertain, but Fives just buries his helmet in Mace's chest and tries to hold himself together. “Whatever’s happened, we can make it better.”

Fives believes him. With every fiber of his being, he absolutely believes every word of it.


	3. Chapter 3

This, Mace assumes, is an excuse for not doing his paperwork that even Ponds will accept.

He won't say he’s _happy_ to escape several hours of mental anguish caused by the sheer ridiculousness of Yoda’s lineage, because that would be unbecoming of a Jedi Master and the Master of the Order. At the same time, however, it is…not the worst thing that could potentially happen, even if there _is_ some kidnapping involved.

Well. _Potentially_ involved. Mace isn't entirely sure where the line should be drawn, given his participation in his own abduction at this point.

“Am I allowed to ask where we’re going?” he asks, pulling on his tunics and resettling them. His cloak is still hanging on the hook in his office, which is a shame, but Mace hadn’t thought to grab it as they left. It’s enough to know that the trooper actually brought his robes along, and didn’t just leave them wherever he was when he stuffed Mace into that awful jacket.

The trooper is still watching him, hunched over in the pilot’s chair with his hands twitching between worn spots on his armor. The blue looks suspiciously like the 501st Legion’s blue, but Mace can't be entirely sure. He hasn’t wanted to press the man too much, either; even moving quickly is enough to make the clone tense and nervous, and Mace is trying to avoid anything that could conceivably be considered a threat.

“I—we’re going to land on Corellia,” he says, and tenses a little when Mace picks up his belt and one of the pouches rustles. Mace doesn’t tell him that most of the noise comes from the extra ration bars he carries for Ponds, because Ponds is terrible about remembering to eat enough to keep up with his calorie needs. “I need to find another ship.”

A little surprised, Mace raises a brow. “This one isn't serviceable?”

The trooper reaches up, carefully pulling his helmet off, though he grips it tightly rather than putting it down. He still looks exhausted, a little too much like he’s been crying for Mace's peace of mind, and he swallows thickly, gaze fixed on stretched-wide mandibles decorating the crown of his bucket. “It’s a Senate ship, and if someone wants to track us—I can't. I don’t want anyone to know where we’re going. It’s not safe. And we can’t. We can't have the comm on.”

A memory surges up, dark, shot through with terror. A comm, a transmission from Coruscant, a voice that has shades of familiarity but _twisted_ , and Mace stops, startled, as the terror washes sideways into horror, certainty—

 _Good soldiers follow orders_ , someone whispers, but Mace can't see who.

“If you wish to avoid suspicion,” he says, carefully steady, “allowing me to divert attention from us—”

“No!” the trooper says loudly, and in an instant he’s on his feet, eyes fever-bright, breath coming hard as panic spikes. “No, you can't—no transmissions, especially not from Coruscant! I­f there's an order, I _have_ to obey it, and I don’t—this isn't an assassination, _please_ —”

“Easy, trooper,” Mace says, as soothing as he can manage, and reaches for the man on instinct. The clone flinches back for half an instant, then practically lunges to grab Mace's hand, hauling him forward. Mace's legs are still a little unsteady, and he almost trips right into the trooper’s hold, hits plastoid harder than he intends but the trooper doesn’t flinch. He hangs onto Mace, not another hug, just gripping his arms, and it takes Mace a moment to realize that he’s putting himself between Mace and the viewscreen. Between Mace and the comm, like he’s trying to protect him.

Something in Mace's chest softens. All clone troopers are kind, generous, impossibly brave. Seeing this man, so clearly in distress but so desperate to prove he’s not a threat, so desperate to keep Mace safe, is jarring, and Mace breathes out slowly. He raises a hand, relieved when the trooper doesn’t flinch, and curls his hand around the back of the man’s head, into thick dark hair that curls around his fingers.

“No orders,” he says quietly, and the trooper shudders like that’s enough to break him. His expression twists, and Mace keeps his hand where it is, doesn’t shift, doesn’t move. “If the comm needs to stay off, that’s fine. Corellia has plenty of channels for non-vocal species to request entry. We can use those.”

“Thank you, sir,” the trooper says miserably, and laughs as he pulls back, scrubbing his hands over his face. It cracks in his throat, and he says with an edge of something vicious, “I _forgot_. I forgot about those, I can't believe I'm so stupid—”

“Easy,” Mace repeats, lowering his hand. “No one person can think of everything. That’s why people work together.” He pauses, considering for a moment, and then snorts. “Given that you managed to kidnap me right out of the Temple and take us off Coruscant, I believe you're anything but stupid.”

“I had to,” the clone says, raw. “I don’t know how much he knows, or—or _how_ he knows, but I had to get you away from him. Away from your troops, too. If they get orders, they have to follow them, and you _like_ them, you’d never expect—you wouldn’t even _know_ —”

Mace wants to ask who _he_ is, wants it in a way that’s all instinct and Force-driven, but at the same time, he can hear the way the clone’s voice is starting to fracture, the way his words pick up speed until he’s tripping over them, and he’s absolutely sure that adding stress won't help. Once they’re on Corellia, maybe, or after the trooper has slept, he might be able to answer questions like that without breaking down.

“I trust you to keep me safe,” Mace says firmly, and the trooper shudders, reaching up to fist his hands in his hair.

“I _will_ ,” he says, and the crack in his voice makes Mace take an automatic step towards him. “But—but there's. I need to find someone. A doctor. A med-droid. Or—anyone who can get into my head. There's something wrong, and I need to fix it, and I can't protect you until I do. They _put it in us_ , sir, they're _controlling_ us and no one even _knows._ ”

Some thread of suspicion says that Mace should suggest a mind-healer, or speak to the trooper about mental illness and the effects of trauma on the brain. He’s done the same thing for many people, all across the galaxy, but—

There's no trace of the fractured thoughts that Mace has encountered before, none of the signs he’s felt. The trooper is terrified, frantic with it, but—he’s not unstable.

“Would going to Kamino be an option?” he asks calmly, and the trooper wrenches around like Mace just shoved his lightsaber through his chest. Panic spikes again, so sharp and complete that it makes Mace's teeth ache and his vision blur, and he can't even react when the clone lunges. Hands grab him, shove him backwards, and Mace feels his back hit the wall, a body hit his chest. The trooper shoves up against him, like he’s covering Mace from incoming fire, and his hands fist tight in Mace's robes.

“ _No_ ,” he says, far louder than he needs to, but the shock of fear comes along with images of sterile rooms, a clone staring up from the cradle of the trooper’s arms, eyes gone blank, the surgery scar on the side of his head clear. Grief flares, and—

The Temple again. Bodies in the darkness, marching feet, the glow of a blue blade lighting up the gloom.

“No,” the trooper says again, cracking, and this is the most desperate Mace has felt him, even counting the moment of their departure from Coruscant. “No, no, not Kamino, we _can't_.”

“Then we won't,” Mace says, as evenly as he can manage with the sheer press of emotion on him. “Trooper—”

There's a ragged breath, a spike of anger. “I have a _name_!” the man snaps, head coming up, and his eyes are still red, his face pale, but his mouth is set in a fierce line. “I'm not just a faceless suit of armor, I'm a _person_ —”

“A person,” Mace says mildly, “who hasn’t yet given me his name.”

The clone’s mouth clicks shut, and he stares at Mace for a long, long minute in complete and utter bewilderment. Mace raises a brow at him, but waits him out patiently, and the fact that surprise has blotted out his fear is something of a relief, even if Mace didn’t mean to upset him.

“Oh,” the man finally says, sounding caught off guard. “I…didn’t?”

Mace shakes his head, and the trooper shifts back, carefully releasing Mace's robes. “Oh,” he says again, and he’s flushing. He reaches up, rubbing his hands over his goatee like that’s going to hide the color in his face, and coughs. “I'm—I'm sorry, sir, I thought I—”

“That’s quite all right,” Mace says, and the utter terror is seeping away, replaced with something like sheepishness. It’s a relief, leaves the air lighter, and Mace gets a hand on the man’s shoulder, gently but firmly pushing him back three steps, then sideways into one of the chairs. With a sound of relief, he sinks down, burying his face in his hands, and doesn’t look up as Mace takes the seat on the other side of the table.

“It’s _not_ ,” the trooper says. “You—you probably think I'm insane, but I'm not, I _know_ what’s happening and I know that you're in danger. I know what…”

“What’s going to happen,” Mace says, even, and when brown eyes rise to fix on him, he inclines his head. “You saw a vision. The Temple in the darkness, and people marching on it.”

“Clones. _Clones_ marching on it.” He rubs his hands over his face, then raises his head. “We’re too close to Coruscant, I _can't_ tell you.”

Mace inclines his head. “That’s all right. I’ll settle for your name, for now.”

There's a pause, then a crooked smile. The trooper sits back, giving Mace a crooked smile. “I'm Fives, sir.”

Fives. Mace pauses, a little startled, because he’s heard the name before, especially when in relation to ARCs. “From the 501st,” he says. “Anakin has mentioned you. He has high praise for your abilities.”

It’s an easy thing to say. Mace expects it to get a smile, at the very least, because Anakin always seems popular with his men, and he’s cheerful, friendly. From what he’s said, he and Fives are friends, even beyond being ARC and general.

He _doesn’t_ expect the spike of absolute _rage_ that cuts right through Fives's being and washes out like fire.

“General _Skywalker_ ,” Fives says, and it’s only calm on the surface, “is half the reason I had to get you off of Coruscant, sir.” He shoves to his feet, turning away, and says abruptly, “I should—inspect the engine for tracking tags. Sorry, sir.”

Startled, Mace watches him stalk away, and when the opening into the engine room slides shut with more force than Mace would have thought one could give an automatic door, he sits back in his chair, frowning faintly. That was…not the reaction of someone who likes Anakin at all. He can't sense any thoughts in particular from Fives, just a seething roil of fury and hatred. Not fear, though.

Whoever Fives is afraid of, it’s not Anakin, even if Anakin is clearly part of this situation.

Mace breathes out, closing his eyes, and lets his uncertainty and confusion rise. Recognizes them, unshapes them, breathes them out into the Force, and stays like that for a moment, trying to feel what direction he should take. There's a certainty in his chest that says this is the right place to be, and Mace certainly isn't about to fight that when Fives so clearly needs help. Or…needs _something_. A ballast at the very least.

Right now, the Force is curled around Fives in a way Mace has never felt before, tangled through him in a way Mace has only ever felt in Force nexuses before. There isn't the overwhelming wash of light that a nexus carries, though, just…a Human. One man, and it’s as if the Force is coiled and waiting for a trigger to tumble into motion around him.

Mace presses his fingers to the tabletop, sparing a glance for the front of the ship and the comm. He could send a message to Ponds right now, call for reinforcements, but—

That’s not the right course of action, he knows. It’s not how he’s meant to move. Corellia will be their next stop, and then likely some sort of doctor.

 _They put something in us_ , Mace thinks, and a thread of something icy slides through his chest, down his spine. He dislikes the Kaminoans with a level of distaste that’s likely unwise for a Jedi, but—what they do is an injustice. The clone army is an injustice, and the fact that Jango Fett saw to their creation, to their training, and was still entirely willing to leave them in slavery as he worked for Dooku makes Mace…

Well. Not _glad_ , because he’s never once been glad to take a life. But it feels more justified than Mace could have expected, before the clones came to light.

He loves Ponds, Razor, Stak. All of his men, and all of the men he’s met and served with over the months of the war. They're all _good_ men, strong and brave, and Mace is glad they exist, no matter how much he hates that they're forced to be soldiers. But—

He doesn’t trust the Kaminoans. Doesn’t trust that Sifo-Dyas didn’t have some other motive, as much as it hurts to distrust another Jedi. The idea that a Jedi would commission an army of slaves is so far against everything they stand for that Mace can't even comprehend why Sifo-Dyas even thought it in the first place. Fears, low in his gut, that there was another hand in it as well, and one with much darker intentions than Sifo-Dyas, regardless of how misguided he was.

Taking a slow breath, Mace opens his eyes, staring at the stars outside the viewscreen. He can sense Fives thumping around in the engine room, cursing and frustrated, but when Mace rises to his feet he doesn’t try to follow. Fives's helmet is still sitting on the floor, left beside the pilot’s seat, and Mace crouches down to pick it up. There are no tallies, and the paint is well cared for, despite the wear on the rest of his armor. What looks like some sort of eel has its jaws stretched wide, mandibles descending, with a single red triangle beneath them. Mace brushes his fingers over it, and he’s not Quinlan but he can still pick out a trace of emotion attached, old, worn grief and determination.

Gently, he sets Fives's helmet on the table, out of harm’s way, and then finds a clear spot on the floor that will be out of the way. Sinking down, he crosses his legs beneath himself, and—he already meditated this morning, but given the events of the day, he thinks he can be forgiven for resorting to it again while his kidnapper is otherwise occupied.

It’s probably about time to stop mooching the Temple’s caf and actually go back to the barracks, Ponds thinks ruefully, checking the time and then sinking back against the edge of the wide window he’s been loitering by. Mace is probably entirely caught up in paperwork, and Ponds doesn’t technically _need_ to be here.

He likes the Temple, though. There's an air of light and peace to it, no matter what else is happening in the galaxy, and none of the Jedi have ever seemed to mind in the least that he’s a clone. Enough commanders and captains end up here as well that there are always at least a few other clones wandering around, and they're usually clones Ponds doesn’t get to see often. Some, like Keeli, he hasn’t seen since he first shipped out from Kamino, and it’s nice to reconnect.

It _is_ getting late, though, and Ponds promised Mace he’d get Lightning here before the evening meal. Leaving now will probably give him enough time to round all of them up and herd them into a transport. Especially if he tells them it was at Mace's suggestion. And that there’s non-ration food involved. Wrangling Lightning is something Ponds has gotten good at, thankfully; at the start of the war, he didn’t expect the general he was assigned with to _want_ to lead a squad, and particularly a Recon squadron like Lightning, known for being in the thick of things.

Mace, though, always seems to be a surprise.

Smiling a little, Ponds glances at the carafe of caf on the table in the corner of the room, squarely in the middle of a nest of chairs and cushions that were recently occupied by a handful of senior padawans. They're empty now, but there's a single clean cup left, and Mace is probably done with what Ponds brought him earlier by now. Or Mace's caf is cold, at which point he’ll drink it but make faces the whole time, and as much as Ponds will always think that’s amusing, he does like to keep his general well-supplied.

Decided, Ponds heads for the carafe, pouring out a cup and then heading down the hall towards Mace's office. This portion of the Temple is usually quiet, and it’s particularly so now, with only a single Gand Knight passing through. They nod to Ponds, who nods in return, and then vanish down a wide stairwell that leads towards a meditation chamber. Ponds feels a flicker of curiosity, because he’s always wanted to know what those rooms are like, but it seems rude to ask. Like an intrusion, though he knows Mace would likely show him if he said he wanted to see.

Gree would probably know if it’s wrong to ask, he thinks, and makes a mental note to ask next time they comm. He’s trying to remember where precisely Gree is, and if he’s following Coruscant time, when he raps his knuckles against Mace's office door, then triggers it without waiting for a response. Mace gets caught up enough that he sometimes doesn’t hear knocking, and he’s insisted more than once that Ponds is welcome to his space. Its—

Empty. The office is empty.

Ponds stops in the doorway, blinking in surprise. The datapads are still sitting on the desk, showing the same sets of forms they were displaying when Ponds left, and Mace's cloak is still hanging on its hook. The cup Ponds brought earlier is on the edge of the desk, and there's an uneven ring of caf on the pale wood, like the liquid sloshed out. It’s dry, and that’s already strange enough—Mace is fastidious, and he would have wiped it up as soon as he realized that it spilled. But…

Some sense of unease slides down Ponds’s spine, a flicker of trained instinct that says something’s wrong. Like coming up on an ambush and _knowing_ it’s a trap, or stepping onto a battlefield that’s too carefully staged. He shouldn’t feel like that in the middle of the Jedi Temple of all places, and yet—

Mace didn’t push his chair in. Ponds has never seen him _not_ do that, in all their time serving together.

Nerves prickling, Ponds sets the caf down, then raises his comm. “Neyo,” he says, and can't quite hide the tension in his voice. “You still down by the starfighter hangar?”

There's a pause, and then Neyo asks flatly, “What happened?”

Ponds smiles ruefully. Always on guard, always looking for trouble. But this time, it might be called for. “Did the general pass you? I'm wondering if he was called to a Council meeting suddenly.”

Neyo grunts, and Ponds can hear the thud of boots on stone, picking up speed. “General Gallia’s been here with me the whole time, so I doubt it.”

Kriff. Ponds thought that could be a decent explanation, but—apparently not. “Could be overreacting,” he says quietly, because battlefield instincts don’t always translate well to downtime.

Neyo's huff says exactly what he thinks of that. “When’s the last time the general didn’t comm you if he had to leave suddenly?”

Ponds breaths out. It’s true. Mace always finds the time to let _one_ of them know, and he’s well aware of Ponds’s habit of hanging around the Temple before he finally leaves. “Still,” he says. “We’re in the middle of the Temple. What _could_ have happened?”

“Happened?” a voice says from behind him, and Ponds twitches, spins sharply. Depa is coming down the hallway, Grey and Styles flanking her, and she looks curious. “Has something happened, Commander?”

 _Kriff_. She must have landed early, but—Mace definitely isn't with her, and that was Ponds’s next option. “General,” he says politely, taking a step back to give her more room as she leans into the office. “I can't find General Windu.”

Depa raises a brow, surveying the interior of the room, and her eyes linger on the cloak on the hook, the spilled caf, just like Ponds’s did. “Was he called to a meeting, perhaps?”

Ponds shakes his head. “Not with the Council,” he says, “and Neyo was in the hangar below the Council room. He didn’t see General Windu pass, either.”

“He didn’t let you know he was leaving?” Grey asks, frowning, and he leans over his general’s shoulder, then trades looks with Styles. “We didn’t see him on the landing platform.”

Ponds makes himself take another breath, then calmly raises his comm and tries Mace's personal code. There's a moment as it connects—

The beeping from the pocket of Mace's cloak is loud in the silence, and the sound of it makes something cold settle into the depths of Ponds’s chest.

“Master Mace wouldn’t have left without his comm,” Depa says in concern, and heads for it, fishing it out of the cloak. “He _never_ leaves his comm behind.”

And he was in the Temple, so he doesn’t have any of his armor with him, either, Ponds thinks grimly. The sound of heavy steps approaching makes him turn, and he nods to Neyo, almost reaches for him on instinct but remembers himself in time. Neyo's not much of one for gestures of affection in public, and Ponds can respect that.

“Anything?” Neyo asks curtly, his gaze flicking from Depa to Grey to Ponds.

“Not yet,” Ponds says, on the edge of grim. “General, I only left an hour and a half ago, if that.”

Depa hums, tapping her fingers against her lips as she surveys the room. “What do you think?” she asks, and Ponds can't figure out who she’s talking to for a moment before Styles huffs.

“Smells shady, sir,” he says, and Grey makes a sound of agreement. Ponds grimaces, not entirely pleased to have his feelings echoed, and steps back towards Neyo.

“The communications center has the security feeds for this level, right?” he asks, and—maybe it’s an overreaction to immediately jump to the worst conclusion, but they're in the middle of a war, and Mace is one of the strongest Jedi in the Order, a member of the Council, the Master of the Order. If someone managed to snatch him out from under their noses, it would be a hell of a blow to the Republic.

“Yes,” Depa says, though she’s still frowning at the room. As Ponds watches, she holds out a hand, like she’s testing the temperature of the air, and cocks her head, the Marks of Illumination on her forehead catching the light. “There was someone else here,” she says after a moment, and her eyes narrow. “Someone in great turmoil, with dark emotions clinging to them. I can't tell if there was anyone with them, though.”

Ponds looks over at Neyo, finds him looking back with a very, very unhappy slant to his mouth. A hostage, maybe. That would be more than enough to get Mace to go along with whatever they ordered him to do.

“Kriff,” Grey says, on the edge of disbelief. “Someone kidnapped General Windu?”

If they did, Ponds is going to find them, and then he’s going to play grav-ball with their skulls until they realize the error of their ways. He likes to think that he’s a merciful man, and relatively easygoing, but someone taking _his_ general right out of the Temple where he’s supposed to be _safe_ —

“Security footage,” Ponds says roughly, and turns on his heel, heading up the hall towards the lift.

The fact that Neyo immediately falls into step with him, their pauldrons thumping together lightly before he puts more space between them, makes Ponds absolutely certain that Neyo's having the same thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

This shouldn’t be going so smoothly.

Fives feels jittery with nerves, strung tight and strung out and sure that the Guard or security forces or Lightning Squadron is about to descend on them with blasters blazing and no mercy to be found. It feels a little like being in a sniper’s sights, and his breath comes hard and fast as he steers Mace through one of Corellia’s smaller ports, too exposed but with no way to fix it.

Mace isn't protesting, isn't resisting; he lets Fives lead him with one hand locked around his elbow, and Fives should probably feel bad for treating him like a prisoner, or a convict, but—

This is going too smoothly. Right from the very first, it’s been too easy. Mace should have fought back, or at least just let Fives flounder instead of _helping_ him, and their escape from Coruscant should have been a disaster, and _landing_ here should have been a disaster—

“Peace, Fives,” Mace says quietly, and he doesn’t turn and look at Fives, doesn’t make any move to touch him, but Fives still _feels_ like a hand touched his shoulder, even through the armor. “No one is paying us any attention.”

If anyone would know that, it’s a Jedi. Fives jerks his head in a nod, grip tightening before he remembers himself; all the clones are engineered to be stronger than a baseline Human, and he’s already probably bruising Mace. He doesn’t need to actually break bones too.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, small, and makes to pull away. Before he can, though, Mace catches his arm, slides his own through it like Fives is escorting him somewhere fancy instead of _kidnapping him_.

“That’s quite all right,” Mace says, and Fives can't read his face. He looks calm, though, the way he has through this whole mess, and Fives has to swallow hard. Under the deep drape of his hood, Mace could be any Jedi passing through a Corellian port, a clone at his side. Looking at him now, there’s no way anyone would know that he’s the one person in the galaxy who can save it.

Save it from Palpatine. Save it from _Anakin_. And—maybe Fives should be more sympathetic, because he would do a hell of a lot to save Echo, or any of his brothers, and Anakin was trying to save his wife, but—

He made them kill _children_. He made Fives and Rex and Dogma and _all_ of them march into the Jedi Temple, raise their blasters, and execute younglings who thought the 501st was there to save them.

Fives is going to be sick.

“Peace,” Mace says, and Fives can't feel the grip of his hand through his vambrace, but the half-step closer that Mace takes puts them shoulder to shoulder, and—that helps. Shouldn’t, because Mace is Fives’s _victim_ , but. It does. Fives swallows, turns his hand and locks his fingers around Mace's forearm, and is a little sorry for clutching at him but not enough to _stop_.

“I'm okay, sir,” Fives says, and immediately wants to kick himself for it. They're supposed to be on the run, with Fives dragging his kidnapped Jedi Master halfway across the known universe against his will. Mace worrying about him is—

Not like Anakin. Not like Anakin _at all_.

But Mace doesn’t say any of that. He just inclines his head, then says, “If we’re looking for a ship to hire, the closest cantina might be a good option.”

That, at least, Fives knows. Paranoia kept him from planning anything concrete for other planets while he was on Coruscant, the crawling suspicion that Palpatine would find out and know exactly where they were going impossible to escape, but he listened in on some conversations with troopers who had just rotated through Corellia to protect the shipyards there, paid attention to their talk of smugglers and scoundrels and lowlifes gathering at the edges of the ports. Actually contacting someone and arranging for another ship would have been dangerous, but—talking to his _vode_ wasn’t. All troopers talk.

Right up until the chip takes control of their brains, and then there’s no point to talking except increased efficiency.

Horror crawls down Fives’s spine, and he can hardly breathe through the weight of it.

“The Alibi,” he manages to get out. “That’s—that’s the cantina some smugglers use.”

“An apt name,” Mace says, dry, but as they emerge from the port, he scans the street ahead of them. It’s a little more run-down than the holos of Corellia that Fives has seen, darker and covered in a thick layer of smog, with the sound of the factories and shipyards nearby almost blocking the sound of the ocean, and Fives doesn’t like the lack of visibility.

“Now we just need someone who’s willing to smuggle people,” Fives says, and it would be a joke except for how it’s true. Except for the way tension churns in Fives’s stomach, because he’s disobeyed orders, gone against the Jedi and the GAR, but at the same time he’s never done _this_. He’s never actively broken the law, and hiring a criminal to get a kidnapped Jedi Master to Mandalore without records probably counts as _thoroughly_ breaking the law.

Maces makes a quiet sound of agreement, like he’s an active participant in this scheme and not someone who Fives threatened with a blaster, who Fives threatened with destruction of his _home_ and his _people_ to get him to come along. “For all it’s a Core planet, Corellia has a reputation as a haven for smugglers and gamblers,” he says calmly. “Given its comparatively open borders and lax cargo restrictions.”

Focusing on little things helps Fives ignore the flutter of panic behind his breastbone that still hasn’t gone away. He makes the turn at the end of the street, scanning the buildings around them, and—he hadn’t even wanted to type anything about Corellia into the holonet terminals on Coruscant, so he couldn’t exactly look up where they're supposed to be going, but. It’s supposed to be near the spaceport, so it can't be _that_ hard to find.

“Some of General Unduli’s troopers had leave here,” Fives says, surreptitiously checking the signs on a side street. Firmly, Mace pulls him in the other direction, heading up an avenue that cuts across four others at a slant, and Fives lets him. At this point he’s far more willing to trust Jedi instincts than his own luck. “And—they said there’s a Jedi Temple here too?” It’s one of the reasons he picked Corellia as the place for their switch, even beyond the number of shipyards and the ease of getting to it. If anyone recognizes Mace, there’s a potential reason for him to be on Corellia, and if there's a Temple here, the people will be more used to Jedi than on most worlds, and should pay less attention.

Mace grimaces, almost pained. “There are,” he agrees. “But the Green Jedi are…very loyal to Corellia above all. They are a sect separate from the main Jedi Order.”

And a headache, going by the look on his face. Fives feels a flicker of amusement despite himself. “That bad, sir?”

“They are very independent,” Mace says, perfectly polite in a way that sounds like a curse, and Fives swallows a laugh. It makes Mace cast him a sideways glance, one brow raised. “Laugh if you like, but the Corellian Jedi refused the Chancellor’s orders to serve as generals, and given the value of Corellia’s shipyards, Chancellor Palpatine couldn’t enforce those orders. They are…rather smug about it.”

That sounds like an understatement, and Fives snorts, only to have raised voices catch his attention. He looks up the street just in time to catch a glimpse of a door sliding shut, a dirty window with smudged lettering, and the relief that shakes through him is about equal to the trepidation.

“There,” he says, and pulls Mace towards it, trying not to think of all the ways this could go wrong, all the chances there are for disaster here. He hasn’t even taken off his armor, and anyone looking at him is going to _know_ he’s an ARC, but—it’s protection. If he has to put himself between Mace and a blaster, he wants something that will stop the bolt, and civilian clothes won't.

Besides, only Jedi really notice clones.

The interior of the cantina is more brightly-lit than Fives expected, the tables neater. There are a handful of people scattered around the room, a sabaac game in the corner that seems more for entertainment than high stakes. A few of the people there look up as Mace and Fives enter, but after a moment they go back to their cards, and Fives forces his hand to unclench from Mace's arm, glancing over.

Mace has his eyes closed, a faint frown on his face. As Fives watches, he turns his head slightly, then says in a low voice, “The bartender will know a ship.”

That’s—logical. The easy solution, and Fives breathes out, tightens his grip, and pulls Mace up towards the bar. There's a tired-looking Falleen behind it, stacking glasses, and Fives has no earthly idea how to open this conversation. Troopers aren’t exactly trained in hiring criminals, even ARCs.

“Excuse me,” he says, and it feels like his hands are sweating in his gauntlets, like he’s about to twitch right out of his skin. The woman looks up, though, one brow rising faintly, and her gaze flickers from Fives to Mace and back again, lingering for a moment on where Mace's hand is resting on Fives’s arm.

“Shipyards are across the bay,” she says. “And the Temple’s on the western edge of the city. If that’s what you're looking for.”

“I was actually looking for a ship,” Fives says, and has to swallow, though at least the helmet hides it. “And passage for two. _Quietly_.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “Like you're going to find anyone who will help a _Jedi_ ,” she says, flat. “They’ll get turned over to the authorities without even a trial.”

“Most Jedi,” Mace says, a little dry, “are less…aggressive than the sect on Corellia.”

“So you can talk.” The Falleen leans forward, the scales on her skull catching the light, and she looks mildly more amused now. “I thought you were leaving that to the clone.”

Mace, in contrast, looks far less amused. “He speaks perfectly well on his own.”

With a snort, the woman raises one hand in surrender, then looks at Fives again. “Quiet, huh,” she repeats, and then pushes up, whistling sharply. When one of the sabaac players raises his head, she gestures to him, and then says, “I don’t know about _quiet_ , but there might be someone who can manage subtle, for the right price.”

With his head just slightly tipped, Fives can see the sabaac player ducking out of the game with murmured apologies, making his way across the room. He’s black, young, with short hair and a neatly-trimmed beard, a short red cape slung over his shoulders. The expression he levels at Mace and Fives is calculating, but interested, and as he reaches the bar a smile breaks over his face.

“Dessin!” he says, leaning over the bar, and the woman rolls her eyes but still leans in to meet him, letting him kiss her cheek. “You know I'm always happy to answer your summons.”

“Lando,” Dessin says tolerantly. “You're between jobs, aren’t you?”

Lando gives Fives and Mace another sideways look, though this one lingers on Mace for a long moment. “I was thinking I’d take a break,” he says easily. “See the sights on Corellia, meet a few nice people—”

“There are no nice people on Corellia.” Dessin tips her head at Mace and says, “The Jedi’s looking to leave quietly.”

“Oh?” Lando half-turns to face them, leaning back with his elbows propped against the bar behind him. The expression on his face is all sharp interest, only just lacquered over with that friendly smile. He looks Mace up and down, eyes lingering on the shadowy drape of his hood. “Nice to skip the fuss sometimes. Where are you headed?”

Fives curls his fingers against his palm, breathes. “Jedha,” he says, and tries to make it firm, inarguable. “We’re going to Jedha.”

Mace doesn’t react to the words, doesn’t even twitch, but Fives can feel the weight of his gaze. It’s another misdirect, but—Jedha is Mid Rim, a place a lot of Jedi go, and given that it’s a pilgrimage destination there are enough transports leaving and arriving at all times to make slipping off the moon easy once they're there.

Lando's eyes flicker to Fives, a little surprise in his expression before he hides it again. “Long trip from Corellia,” he says. “Especially if you want to keep it quiet.”

Costly, he means. That’s fine. Fives managed to swipe a GAR finance officer’s credentials and get out with as many datachips as would fit in his belt pouches, just for this, and he nods.

“Half now, half when we get there. As long as it’s fast,” he says.

Lando grins. “She’s not exactly a Nubian yacht, but she’ll get us there,” he says, and catches the datachip Fives tosses him. Scans it, then raises a brow, and this time his smile is a lot more charming. “She’ll get us there _fast_ , you have my word. And quiet as a mouse droid.”

“Soon?” Fives asks, because the itch of eyes on them is probably just his imagination, given that Mace hasn’t mentioned anything, but it’s still more than enough of a reason to leave now.

“Sure,” Lando says, easy. “Fueled up last night, so she should be good to go now. Thanks, Dessin.”

“Stay off Corellia,” Dessin says, going back to the glasses. “The muck will stick to you.”

Lando chuckles, but heads for the door, holding it open for Fives and Mace. It takes more effort than Fives would like not to immediately shove himself between Mace and Lando, make himself a shield, but—Mace doesn’t seem to sense any danger, and Lando has a blaster strapped to his thigh but his hands aren’t anywhere near it. There's probably no immediate threat.

Fives knows, though. He _knows_ how easily Jedi die. He’s killed them himself, even if those Jedi are alive again right now. The clones were made to be Jedi-killers, and they're good at it, but—

Jedi die easily. They're not immortal. They're not invincible, no matter how it sometimes seems on the battlefield.

No matter what, though, Fives isn't going to let _this_ Jedi die. No matter what he has to sacrifice to make sure of it.

“Have to say, I've never been hired by a Jedi before,” Lando says, and the way his eyes keep moving to Mace makes Fives’s skin crawl. “Never been to Jedha, either. Nice place?”

Fives hasn’t been to Jedha, either. Knows what he was able to pick up from other troopers, because the 327th was stationed there briefly, but like with Corellia he hadn’t even wanted to risk a holonet search.

“Dusty,” he says, when Mace makes no move to answer. “Lots of pilgrims.”

“Right, right. The Holy City.” Lando gives Fives a grin. “Seems like the Jedi would have plenty of ways to get there themselves.”

Panic is tight in Fives’s throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Good for you that we’re here instead, and you're getting paid.”

Lando laughs, and there's something delighted in it. “I've never met a clone trooper before, but you're mouthier than I expected. Thought you’d be more…robotic.”

“The Separatists would certainly like you to believe so, but the clones are the bravest men I've ever met,” Mace says quietly, and something in Fives’s chest clenches tight. Every clone knows the stories, knows how General Windu on the battlefield spends just as much time rescuing his men as he does fighting, that he’s one of the more vocal about providing for the clones after the war ends, that he treats his men like equals. The best assignment in the GAR is under General Windu, and everyone knows it.

It’s a good thought. Of course it is. But at the same time all Fives can think about is Anakin, the way the objective always mattered more than the lives lost. He should have seen the signs, should have noticed, should have _known_. The other time around, when he told Anakin about the chips while he _wasn’t_ drugged and frantic, and Anakin had assured him he’d look into it, he’d thought that would be enough. But—

He feels it again, that wrenching click, that settling when the Chancellor’s image appeared, when he said _execute Order 66_ and Fives hadn’t even had _time_ to realize he’d been betrayed. That they all had, and it was a betrayal by _Anakin_ , by their general, by the man they would have died for without hesitation or question. He hadn’t realized it at all until the loop reset, and he was gasping awake on Umbara with Rex leaning over him, looking worried.

Then he’d realized. Then he’d had to _remember_ , remember that _he’d_ been the reason Torrent was on Coruscant, all together, directly under Anakin's command. That he’d been the one to change things, and get them there, and he’d been the one who said _yes sir_ like it was a joy to follow Anakin's orders when he’d told them to march on the Temple.

There was a boy outside it. A padawan, desperate to get away, who had made it to the landing platform just as Senator Organa arrived, and somehow the horror on the senator’s face is clearer than anything else about that moment.

Fives bites down hard on his lip and fights not to gag. He’s a soldier, he’s seen plenty of horrors, but—

Beside him, there's a faint stumble, and Fives jerks around automatically, catching Mace as his heartbeat rockets into his throat. Instantly alarm surges, and Fives thinks of snipers, poison, gas—

Mace's hand closes tight around his wrist, long-fingered hand squeezing firmly. “Peace, Fives,” he says, low, and it could mean Fives’s reaction to him tripping, but—Mace doesn’t trip, especially when walking down an open street. It’s a front, an act, and the weight of him leaning against Fives is pure grounding. Fives’s breath shudders out of his lungs, and he wraps an arm around Mace's back even though he _knows_ Mace doesn’t need the help.

“Careful, sir,” he says quietly, desperately, one hand fisting in Mace's robes. Thinks of the sedative, and aftereffects, and feels his stomach turn. That’s not it, and he knows it, but—it could be. Fives could have hurt another Jedi without even wanting to. “Almost there.”

“We are,” Lando says, and he’s watching them with interest, something thoughtful in his face. When Fives looks at him, he smiles, half-turning to face them as he walks. “My ship is at the edge of the port, so it’s just another block—”

A body collides with Fives, with Mace, and Fives jerks. He wrenches around, blaster in hand and already rising even as the person who hit him tumbles back, and there's an offended cry. Fives freezes, weapon leveled, but—

The kid on the ground gives him a dirty look, rubbing his head. “Are you going to _shoot_ me?” he asks, like it’s an easy dare to make.

Belatedly, Fives lowers his blaster, breathes out through the alarm singing in his blood. “No,” he says. “But watch where you're going, kid.”

The boy rolls his eyes, but climbs back to his feet. “It’s _my_ planet, _you_ should watch where you're going,” he retorts, and ducks past them—

Comes up short, fast, as a hand grabs his collar. “Wait,” Mace says, calm but amused, and when the boy gives him a wounded look, he simply raises a brow. “The datachips, please. And the knife.”

Jolting, Fives snaps a hand to his utility belt, instantly feels the absence of both the chips and his favorite vibroblade, and curses. Lando snorts, catching Fives’s arm to tug him back a step, and says, “A native Corellian pickpocket in his natural habitat. Lucky to have a Jedi with us or we might not have spotted him.”

Mace doesn’t react, just holds the pickpocket’s gaze, and Fives can practically see the battle of wills as the boy stares back, expression twisted into a mask of deep offense, Mace entirely unperturbed.

There's a long, long moment of standoff, and then with a groan the boy folds. “I was just seeing if you were as dumb as you looked,” he says huffily, and slips Fives’s belt pouch and vibroblade out of his sleeve. Fives snatches them out of his hand, offended but also a little horrified at how easily he could have lost _everything_ , because that’s all of the funds he has for this mission. If those datachips had ended up stolen, if he’d had to protect Mace without credits and with the Order _and_ Lightning Squad on his tail—

“We’re not,” Mace says dryly, and crouches down, pulling his hood back just a little. “Were you taking them for yourself?” he asks. “Or to give to your gang leader?”

The pickpocket scoffs. “Everything’s gangs around here,” he says, like Mace is stupid for not knowing that.

Mace inclines his head, then reaches into one of his belt pouches, the full one Fives heard rustling the first time he put it on. “Here,” he says, and draws out a protein ration, offering it to the boy. “As thanks for the reminder to keep our eyes open.”

The boy’s expression wars between offense and smugness, and he stares at the bar for a long moment before he snatches it, making it disappear. “You're welcome,” he says, and Fives rolls his eyes, tempted to reach out and give him a noogie or something because of that tone. The amused sideways glance from Mace says he didn’t miss that, but he doesn’t comment, just rises to his feet.

“Be careful,” he tells the boy, and the kid slips around him and bolts, vanishing under an overhang and not reappearing.

Fives grimaces a little, shuffling his datachips around to divide them between belt pouches, then re-sheaths his vibroblade. “Sorry, sir,” he says to Mace, because he should have _noticed_ —

“That’s quite all right, Fives,” Mace says, and he steps forward. When Fives reaches out automatically, Mace slides a hand around his arm, like he’s relying on Fives to lead him. It shouldn’t make something in Fives’s chest settle, because this is a kidnapping, he’s _abducting_ Mace, but—it does. He’s right where Fives can see him, feel him, and if Fives needs to he can cover Mace in an instant, push him down or move him, get between him and whatever danger there is. And—Mace is _letting_ him.

That loosens the knot in Fives’s chest, makes his hands want to shake with relief. Mace is _letting_ Fives protect him, even after Fives hurt him, even after Fives threatened him. Fives knows the dangers here better than Mace could, and Mace is letting him lead for that reason. It’s—good. It’s better than Fives ever could have hoped for, when he was first coming up with this plan.

“Let’s go,” he tells Lando, who smiles but starts moving again, leading them down a long street and under an archway where a tram is just rattling across. The port is on the other side of it, fenced in, and Lando waves at the Rodian in the sentry’s booth, gets a wave in return, and keeps moving without pause as the gate opens for them.

“I thought you Jedi were all about stopping crime,” he says over his shoulder. “Didn’t expect you to let him go, I’ll admit.”

Mace doesn’t answer for a long handful of seconds. Fives flicks a glance at him, then turns his eyes ahead of them, doing a quick sweep of their surroundings. “Jedi deal with _important_ crime,” he says for Mace. “That was just a kid.”

Lando's smile is a little crooked. “That kid has probably ruined a fair few lives, picking pockets on a planet like Corellia,” he says, but it’s mild, not angry.

“The crime here is the fact that gangs control all of Corellia’s streets, and they use and abuse the vulnerable to do it,” Mace says, and there's an edge of something dark in his voice, something grim and set. It makes Fives think of rescuing Echo, and the way Mace offered even a bunch of droids the opportunity to change their ways and surrender. It makes his throat tight, because—because he _knew_ that Jedi could be like that, distantly, but it took Anakin's betrayal to really realize how far away from _being_ a Jedi Anakin was.

Lando casts him a sideways look, thoughtful, interested, and Fives doesn’t bodily put himself between Mace and Lando but only because Lando turns an instant later, then spreads his hands, a smile breaking over his face. “Here we are,” he says, and there's a note of pride in his voice. “The _Millennium Falcon_ , my pride and joy. Welcome aboard.”

Fives looks, and­—it’s honestly not as bad as he was expecting. The _Falcon_ is a Corellian light freighter, clearly modified, and she’s sleek and well cared for. Not exactly impressive, but not bad for a smuggler.

“Thank you, Captain,” Mace says gravely, and follows Lando up the ramp. The interior of the ship is neat, functional, and Lando waves them towards a low bench seat. Fives guides Mace into the seat, then pulls his helmet off, hesitating. He wants to make sure Lando is heading them towards Jedha, but at the same time, the thought of leaving Mace alone in an unfamiliar place sinks beneath his skin like claws and won't let go.

“It’s Lando Calrissian,” Lando says, and he’s paused at the edge of the archway that leads to the cockpit, watching them again. His eyes lingering on Mace as Mace pulls his hood back makes Fives want to step between them again, but he manages to hold himself back, to keep from reacting as Mace looks up.

“I'm Mace,” he says evenly, and glances up at Fives, one eyebrow rising. Not a demand for Fives to reveal himself, but a question, and Fives grimaces, rubs a hand over his face.

“Fives,” he says, and—Mace is the best fighter in the Order, dangerous enough to kill a Sith Lord. Fives _knows_ that, and it’s the whole reason he’s doing this, but it still hurts to turn and say, “I know the coordinates, if you need them.”

“Sure,” Lando says, flashing him an easy smile. “Think you can let your Jedi out of your sight for that long?”

 _Your Jedi_ , Fives thinks, and has to swallow hard. It—hits. It hits _hard_ , lodges in the pit of his stomach. He’s been thinking of Anakin as his Jedi still, even if Anakin's not a Jedi, but—

Mace. _Mace_ is his Jedi now. The realization shakes through him, and it feels like a seismic shift, like the earth is moving under him. Fives can _have_ a Jedi again, and one who won't force his own men to slaughter younglings in their home.

A hand touches his arm, and Fives looks down at Mace automatically, taking a step towards him. Mace doesn’t move, doesn’t rise, doesn’t seem intimidated by Fives looming over him. Just raises his head, meets Fives’s gaze, and squeezes Fives’s vambrace lightly before he lets go.

“I’ll be fine, Fives,” he says, and Fives closes his eyes for a moment, breathes out, and nods.

“I know, sir,” he says, and sets his helmet down on the table. It’s a recognition that he won't need it, that things are safe right now, and he swallows hard, then turns and nods to Lando. “Captain.”

Lando's smile is a little slower this time, a little brighter. He tips his head, something amused and warm in his face, and says, “Come on, trooper. You can play copilot, if you want, since I don’t have a first mate yet.”

That goes a hell of a long way to settling Fives’s nerves, and he smiles back, takes one more glance at Mace, and follows Lando towards the cockpit.


	5. Chapter 5

Ponds is in absolutely no mood to be polite when he bangs on the door of the 501st’s barracks at a little after midnight. He doesn’t mind the volume, doesn’t worry about waking any generals or officers, just slams his fist against the metal and hears it reverberate through the room. There's a flurry of voices, an angry shout, and Ponds steps back, folding his arms across his chest.

Neyo has the 212th, and Styles and Grey split the other three divisions that are currently taking leave, and Depa went to go cajole answers out of the Guard, but—it doesn’t feel like _enough_. Ponds’s skin itches, and he wants to shake the whole of Coruscant until it spits Mace back out, because _Mace was kidnapped by a clone_.

The sight of white armor on the security feed, the image of a familiar blaster pressed right up against Mace's chest—it’s never, ever going to leave Ponds’s nightmares now.

From inside the barracks, there's an annoyed call, a thud, a creak. The door opens, and the captain in charge of the legion leans out, blinking at Ponds like he still can't quite see straight. There are pillow creases in his cheek, and he stares at Ponds for a long, long moment, then rubs a hand over his face.

“Commander Ponds?” he asks, rough with sleep. “What’s happened?”

“Do a headcount,” Ponds says, grim. “Every soldier in your division. I want an accounting as soon as possible. Within four hours at the _latest_.”

Rex stares at him blankly. “A full account—Commander, we’re on _leave_ ,” he says. Behind him, there's a murmur, and a clone without any facial hair or tattoos pushes into the view, frowning.

Ponds breathes through his nose, then nods shortly. “Office,” he says, and Rex's eyes widen. He pulls back, giving Ponds room to enter, and Ponds follows him in.

“Jester, start taking a headcount,” he calls. “All squads need to check in. Take a roll call”

“Yes, sir,” one of the other captains says, and starts waving the handful of troopers who are awake and displeased about it back.

“This way, sir,” Rex says, and glances sideways at the clone who’s following them, frowning. “Echo, get the general’s squad for me—”

“I can’t, sir,” Echo says, and flicks a glance at Ponds. “Fives is still out. Everyone else is here, but—he’s been gone since last night.”

Rex opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Ponds jerks his head at the small office set aside for the commander. “In,” he orders, and—he’s not a Jedi, but he knows a bad feeling when it bites him in the _shebs_. This is a hell of a bad one, too.

Echo casts him a startled look, but ducks in after Rex, and Ponds follows, then keys the door shut. A glance at his comm shows that none of the others have reported in yet, but he holds off on messaging Neyo or Grey or the general. A feeling doesn’t mean there's anything concrete. Not yet.

“Commander?” Rex asks, and there’s concern deep in the lines of his face as he rubs the pillow creases away. “What’s wrong?”

“There was an attack on the Temple,” Ponds says, and Rex stiffens hard, breath catching in his throat as he takes a step forward. Ponds raises a hand, and adds, “Your general and commander are fine. There was only one person taken.”

“Taken,” Rex repeats. “A _Jedi_? Out of the _Temple_?”

“General Windu,” Ponds says grimly, and Rex closes his mouth on whatever he was about to say, looking ill. Ponds can't blame him when he feels the same; someone walked in, took Mace, and marched him right out of the Temple under all of their noses, and they couldn’t manage to stop it.

Leaning against the edge of the desk, Echo is watching them, eyes narrowed, calculating. “You think it was a clone,” he says. “A clone from the 501st.”

“What?” Rex looks at him, then back at Ponds, and the line of his shoulders goes stiff with offence. “Ponds, none of my men would _ever_ —”

Ponds shakes his head. “I don’t think it was the 501st in particular,” he says. “We’re getting an accounting from every division that’s on leave here right now, but it was definitely a clone, and Kamino-trained.”

“Kriff,” Rex mutters, and glances over at Echo. “Get Fives on the comm. I don’t care if he’s in the middle of something, do it _now_.”

“I've been _trying_ , Captain,” Echo says, sounding frustrated. “He said he was going to a nat-born bar somewhere nearby, and going to try to go home with someone—”

Rex pauses, an expression of deep confusion crossing his face. “ _Fives_ was,” he repeats, and Echo grimaces in something like agreement.

“That’s why I've been trying to reach him,” he says. “He was weird about it, and really loud. Like, Hardcase levels of loud. I thought it was bravado and him being an idiot, but—”

But. It could have been to make sure no one would look for him, Ponds thinks, cold. “What’s his rank?” he asks, already pulling up the roster for the 501st on his comm. “Number?”

“ARC,” Rex says, tight. “But Fives wouldn’t _ever_ kidnap a Jedi. I don’t think he’s even been to the Temple before.”

“Then he canvassed it thoroughly beforehand,” Ponds says. There are only two ARCs attached to General Skywalker’s personal squad, and it’s easy enough to figure out which one would have called himself Fives. Ponds marks his file, then pulls up the footage he copied from the Temple and tips his head at Rex. “Whoever it was, they were wearing unmarked armor, but they didn’t bother to avoid cameras. This seem like him?”

Rex leans over, and the image of the hallway outside Mace's office makes him frown. “General Windu was taken from his _office_?” he demands. “Not—not medical, or…”

His voice trails off as the door opens and Mace steps out, hands folded into his sleeves. There’s one half-second glimpse of the figure behind him, but it’s still enough to turn the blood arctic in Ponds’s veins, to chill everything to ice in an instant. The blaster that was between Mace's shoulder blades lowers, drops, and then the clone draws something from along his leg. A vibroblade, and not a standard one.

“Oh,” Echo says, and it wavers. He takes a step back, like he just got hit in the gut, and says, “That’s—that’s Hevy's knife.”

“Hevy,” Ponds repeats, pausing the footage, and makes to pull up the rest of Torrent Company’s roster. “Another ARC—?”

“No,” Rex says quietly. “He’s dead. Blew himself up as a last resort to take out Rishi Station and alert the fleet to Grievous’s invasion of Kamino.” A pause, and he says carefully, “Hevy, Fives, and Echo were from the same squad.”

“Hevy loved that stupid knife,” Echo says, and there are sharp edges to it, cutting, broken. “It was—99 gave it to him. Fives found it in the rubble, afterwards. And he kept it.”

Kept it even when he was kidnapping Ponds’s Jedi, apparently. Ponds watches the footage, watches Fives press that knife against Mace's side, and closes his eyes. He’s watched it too many times. If he has to see it again, if he has to watch the footage track across a dozen cameras, across Mace distracting a pair of younglings, putting himself on his knees between them and his kidnapper, he’s—

“Fives wouldn’t,” Echo says, like he still can't believe it, even with the tape playing out in front of him. “He was—he’s _loyal_. To the Jedi and us most of all. And he’s been _normal_. I would have noticed if there was something happening.”

Ponds looks up, just in time to see Mace rising to his feet, the two younglings scrambling past. Hard to focus on them when he can see the flash of metal around Mace's wrists, because the kriffing _hutt’un_ put a pair of _stun cuffs_ on Ponds’s general. His breath rattles in his lungs, and he breathes through his nose, staring at the straight line of Mace's shoulders, the slant to his mouth that seems the same as normal but still reads as tension to Ponds’s practiced eye. Not _fear_ , because if anything has ever scared Mace, Ponds hasn’t seen it, but…concern.

There's no audio on the tapes, and with that blank helmet there's no way to tell what the bastard said to Mace, what threats he made. Ponds wants to know, though. Wants to break a bone for every person dear to Mace Fives threatened, or even just Fives’s whole kriffing face. Ponds isn't feeling overly picky at the moment.

Closing the footage as the stolen Guard speeder lifts off, Ponds pulls up the marked file, attaches a brief note, and sends it to Grey, Depa, Styles, and Neyo. Then, with his politest smile, he tells Echo, “Grab your gear. You're coming with me.”

Echo doesn’t even hesitate; he salutes, then bolts, and Ponds waits until the door has slid shut behind him to meet Rex's eyes squarely. He _knows_ how devoted to his men Rex is. But—

“As soon as I catch up with him, I'm going to break him in _half_ ,” he says, perfectly even, perfectly polite, and Rex winces.

“Commander,” he says, “I know how it looks, but Fives is one of the bravest, most loyal soldiers I've ever met. Whatever is going on, I'm absolutely sure he didn’t want to do this.”

Blackmail, then, maybe. It’s an option Ponds touched on briefly, but he can't say he cares all that much about Fives’s motivation. Just about his actions. “I’ll take that into account, Captain,” he agrees, and there's a beep from his comm. He checks the message, frowning at the sight of Depa's code. “Did General Skywalker use his access code on any outbound flights today?”

“What?” Rex's brow furrows, but when Ponds raises a brow at him, he winces. “Uh, sir, I think—”

“He did,” Ponds concludes. “Going to see the senator?” When Rex freezes like a hunted thing, he snorts, and says, “My general told me about them months ago. If it’s supposed to be a secret, it’s a bad one.”

Rex winces, rubbing a hand over his hair. “Yes, sir,” he says, rather miserably. “Believe me, I know. But if General Skywalker was using his code, it was probably to get into Senator Amidala’s building.”

According to the Guard, Skywalker’s code registered in two places at once at one point, simultaneously. And one was an outbound ship that corrected with Mace's authorization a moment later, and jumped to hyperspace with coordinates registered for Corellia. If the kidnapper really is Fives, it makes sense that he’d have been able to learn Skywalker’s code, too, and the sheer bad luck of Skywalker using it somewhere else at the same moment is the only reason it was caught.

And then he used Mace's code. Ponds doesn’t _want_ to think about what Fives likely did to get Mace to give him his authorizations, but—he can't stop himself, and it’s making him feel sick.

“Look into things here,” Ponds tells Rex. “Question everyone who interacted with Fives and see if he said _anything_ out of the ordinary. I’ll bring Echo back in one piece.”

“What about Fives?” Rex asks levelly, like Ponds can't see the stiffness in his shoulders, the tightness of his mouth.

Mace is the most dutiful person Ponds has ever met. Whatever made him give up his codes, codes that could have been used to walk right into the Chancellor’s office or listen in on a High Council meeting, it had to have been horrifying. Ponds breathes in, and thinks of that knife against Mace's side, the blaster at his back, the _clone_ wrapping stun cuffs around Mace's wrists, and smiles.

“Well,” he says. “I guess that’s going to depend on how hard he resists.”

Rex doesn’t say anything to that, and Ponds doesn’t wait for an answer. He pushes out of the office, and finds Echo already waiting, standing by the door with his pack at his feet. When he spots Ponds, he immediately hauls it on, then says, “Sir! I checked for Fives’s gear while I was grabbing mine, and it’s gone. He just left this.”

It’s a scrap of flimsi, a torn corner that bears the edge of an advertisement. Ponds takes it, turning it to see what it’s meant to be for, but he can't tell. A tattoo parlor, maybe, but there's no picking out a name or a location from just this much. The only thing Ponds can see that might have any meaning is a set of tallies, inked into the edge of the flimsi. Five of them, and Ponds frowns, flipping the scrap over to check the back, then taking another look at the five lines.

They seem perfectly ordinary, entirely unremarkable, and they're something hundreds of thousands of clones have marked on their armor somewhere. But they meant enough to Fives that he wrote them out, and that matters. Ponds can't tell why, not yet, but—he will. When they catch up, when he gets his Jedi back and takes Fives into custody, he’ll ask.

Eventually.

Mace forgot his comm in his office.

For a particular given value of _forgot_ , of course; he highly doubts Fives would have taken him trying to retrieve it well even if he _had_ remembered its existence when they were halfway out the door, but it’s still mildly surprising to reach for his wrist and not find the strap there. Mace is in the habit by now of checking his messages every few minutes, dealing with what minor crises bubble to the surface even as he moves through the rest of his day. Here and now, he hasn’t even been thinking of it, and it was something like a start to realize that.

Mace rubs at the bare skin, a little unsettled by the habit that the war has trained into him, even more surprised that he forgot it. At the same time, however, it feels like a sign for the future, like someday he _will_ forget all the habits he’s picked up over the course of the war, and be able to return to being a Jedi instead of a general.

Of course, in the meantime, it means Ponds is very likely about to do something drastic.

Mace doesn’t wince, but he very definitely closes his eyes and grimaces a little, rubbing a hand over his head. Ponds is the kindest man he’s ever met, incredibly selfless and giving, but he worries. If he thinks Mace has been kidnapped, he won't take it well.

Neyo is there, of course. Neyo is reasonable, and he’ll talk Ponds down before he does anything. The two of them together are the best commanders Mace could have wished for, and they're a good team.

A little relieved by that thought, Mace unfolds himself from the bench, rising to his feet. The absence of his lightsaber is an odd thing, like a gap where there shouldn’t be one, but if he concentrates he can feel the familiar shape of it tucked away in Fives’s kit. For a moment, Mace debates asking for it back, but—that’s likely a step too far, even if Fives seems a little more settled now. Mace will simply have to take it as an exercise in following Master Fay's philosophy, of a lightsaber not being the sum of a Jedi’s existence, and call it personal growth.

It’s still a strange thing to consider, that Fay is gone. She was T'ra’s companion through the centuries, two pillars of the Order even if Fay spent her existence wandering, and when Obi-Wan brought back word of her death, Mace was—

Well. The war has always been painfully, unbearably real to him, and to all of the Jedi. A worldview built on empathy serves no soldier well, and the Jedi have no choice in their empathy, wouldn’t choose to forsake it even if they could. But that was, perhaps, the moment when Mace realized that even the oldest and most powerful of their Order weren’t untouchable.

It’s an old realization now, well-proven, and an old ache besides. Mace breathes through it, accepts it, and opens his eyes, feeling for the edges of the minds around him. Things are…quiet. It’s been years since Mace felt them this quiet, just two minds nearby and no more. The Temple is always full, after all, and battlefields are never empty, even after the armies have departed. Not for Jedi.

The change isn't objectionable, though. Mace isn't a person who constantly needs other souls around him; the Jedi are communal, and he loves the world of the Temple, but solitude can be a relief at times. He hasn’t had that in…years, now. Not for any length of time, at least.

There isn't quite solitude now, either, even if it’s close. Mace can feel Lando, quiet but intent, laughing at a story he’s telling, and he feels like the edge of a thrill, like he’s enjoying this trip. It rouses a flicker of humor in Mace's chest, because Lando seems like a decent man, easygoing and clever, and he immediately caught that Fives needed a little extra consideration. That he then gave it to him makes Mace far more inclined to like him; most people would see a clone and not look any deeper, but Lando readily adjusted his expectations, changed the way he treated Fives, and never looked back. His mind is full of the quiet joy of having his ship around him, a new adventure looming, and nothing to darken that.

Fives, though—

Mace frowns, sliding his hands into his sleeves as he considers the thorny tangle of Fives’s mind. There are no images in particular rising, which Mace is glad for; he’s seen the image of bodies on the Temple floor far too many times, like a blow from nowhere. Still, Fives’s thoughts are spinning towards a horrified sort of exhaustion, his body completely worn down even if he’s managed to keep moving this long through sheer stubbornness and a driving sense of desperation.

If he doesn’t sleep soon, he’ll likely collapse, and Mace considers the paths forward, weighs his options. Fives likely won't be comfortable leaving Mace awake while he sleeps, either for reasons of protection or because he thinks Mace might try to reroute the _Falcon_ and escape. He seems reluctant to trust Lando, as well, which is understandable even if it’s unnecessary. But—

There was a moment on Corellia, right before the pickpocket appeared, when Fives’s anxiety was about to reach critical mass, and Mace was able to distract him with a put-on stumble and a touch. He remembers, too, the way Fives has kept trying to put himself between Mace and any threats, using his own body as a shield, and Fives’s words on Coruscant. _I couldn’t let him get you. Not again._

Fives is so focused on Mace that a hint of danger to him is enough to pull him out of the depths of a panic attack, that something drove him to kidnapping in the name of keeping Mace away from an unnamed threat. Mace doesn’t want to use that against him, but—using it for Fives’s own benefit, the same way he faked tripping and staved off Fives’s breakdown for at least a moment, seems an acceptable feint in the grand scheme of things. Fives _needs_ sleep, needs rest so desperately that he feels a little like he’s on the edge of snapping from the lack of it.

Looking at things like that, the choice is simple.

Decided, Mace picks up Fives’s helmet, then heads up the short corridor towards the cockpit, where the door stands open. When he leans in, Lando has his feet up on the console, perfectly relaxed except for the watchful way his eyes immediately flicker to Mace, and Fives is curled forward in his seat just a little, looking like he’s been caught on the edge of vibrating out of his own skin. It makes sympathy curl in Mace's chest, and he nods to Lando, then says quietly, “Fives.”

Fives startles like Mace just stabbed him, spinning up and to his feet in one quick motion. “Sir?” he asks in alarm, taking a step forward. Mace offers him a hand, because touch seems to help ground him, and Fives takes it without even seeming to realize, gauntleted hand wrapping around Mace's wrist. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Mace says calmly, though Fives is thinking about another clone, another ARC with blue-marked armor. About an explosion, and a tearing sense of loss, and then an ache of grief and abandonment watching that same clone walk away from him. It makes Mace turn his hand, squeezing Fives’s wrist lightly, and he says, quiet, “I was going to lie down and sleep, and I thought you would want to be nearby.”

The shuddering relief that washes through Fives is almost enough to make Mace stagger, and Fives nods quickly. “Thanks,” he says, ragged, and then hesitates, glancing over at Lando.

Lando just gives him a grin, quick and a little soft around the edges. “Bunk for passengers is down the hall to the left,” he says. “Third door. I've got my own on the other side, so don’t worry about me. It’s all yours.”

Mace inclines his head, glad that that at least won't be an issue. If Lando were sharing a room with them, Fives would never relax. “Thank you,” he says. “How long until we reach Jedha?”

Lando drops his feet, leaning forward to check the display. “At least ten hours,” he says. “Maybe twelve. Some Weequay pirates have been lurking near a checkpoint, and if I take the long way around I can avoid them completely.”

“Take the long way,” Mace says, and when Fives stiffens, he meets Fives’s eyes calmly. “We could use the rest, and I would rather not negotiate with pirates today.”

“Sure,” Lando says easily. “Whatever you want, since you're the customer. I've got nowhere to be.”

He means it, and Mace can't sense so much as a trace of duplicity from him. He’s pleased with the pay, with the trip, interested in the whys of a clone and a Jedi hiring him but willing to work the mystery out in pieces on his own, and Mace dips his head in thanks. Lando grins back, and Mace gently pulls Fives out of the cockpit, taking his arm as if he needs the help. Given the way Fives’s hand immediately curls tight around his arm, the contact helps, and Mace keeps it as he guides Fives towards the bunkroom.

“I'm sorry to pull you away from navigating,” he says, keeps it calm and even and unhurried as he does. “But I thought you would like to know where I was going.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fives says, a little ragged, and Mace can feel his flicker of alarm just at the _thought_ of coming back to the sitting area and finding Mace gone. “I’ll stand guard in the room—”

Mace keys open the door, stepping in, and the room is small but serviceable, with a pair of bunks that aren’t overly narrow. Acceptable, Mace allows, and lets go of Fives, sealing the door and locking it.

“I would much rather you slept as well,” he says, leaning down to set Fives’s helmet on the floor and pull his boots off. “You have my word that I won't leave the bed as long as you're in it, Fives, but I can feel that you need sleep.”

Fives freezes, and Mace contains a wince at the surge of emotion, the dismay and exhaustion and fear rising like they're going to swamp him. Deliberately, he sits down on the edge of the bunk, undoing his belt and setting it on top of his boots, then raises a brow at Fives. “I’ll sense any changes to Lando's thoughts, and wake you immediately if that happens. And if it will help, I’ll let you take the side of the bed by the door.”

Fives swallows, eyes flickering to his bucket, then back to Mace. He looks torn, hands clenching into fists, and Mace can feel the frantic pace of his thoughts, the wash of tiredness that makes his hands shake, the certainty that he needs to stay on guard. He closes his eyes, then takes a breath, and Mace catches a flicker of _just for a minute_ and _I’ll just lie there, it’s fine_ before Fives nods and starts quickly, neatly stripping off his armor.

“All right,” he says, voice cracking. “I—I have to stay between you and the door, though.”

“All right,” Mace says calmly, and takes off his sash, his outer tunic. The inner one is thin enough to sleep in, and he sets the folded cloth on top of his boots as well, then rolls onto the bed, settling against the wall. It’s not the most comfortable spot, but Mace doesn’t need rest in any urgent way. He watches as Fives finishes stacking his armor at the edge of the bed, then straightens up and hesitates, his gaze flickering from Mace to the door and back.

“It might not have locked properly, if you want to check it. I'm unfamiliar with this model of freighter,” Mace says, and something in the line of Fives’s shoulders eases a little. He nods, relieved, and crosses to the door, unlocking and then relocking it, and Mace settles on his side, facing the wall, and pillows his head on his arm. There's a moment of silence, careful and tense and as thin as spider silk, and then a raw sound that Fives can't quite muffle in time. The mattress dips slightly, and a moment later a body settles right behind Mace, a careful handful of centimeters between them, with a blaster tucked out of the way but easily within reach. Fives’s thoughts are still spinning, a chaotic tangle that’s full of a frantic sort of fretfulness over the distance, the door, the vulnerability of being like this even without closing his eyes, and Mace feels his worry and anger and fear rising, cresting—

“Fives,” he says, not quite an order, and Fives’s breath shakes out of him. When Mace pushes up on one elbow, reaching for him, Fives slides closer immediately, wraps himself around Mace completely, arms around his chest, legs tangled, grip almost bruising. He clutches at Mace like he did on Coruscant, when he caught him right after sedating him, and there's a wash of grief and relief in equal measure that shakes through him. Fives buries his face in the back of Mace's neck, and Mace closes his eyes, sympathetic pain sliding through him. He presses a hand over Fives’s, and Fives tightens his grip, perfectly silent, entirely exhausted.

Mace doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. He lies awake as Fives shivers behind him, not influencing his thoughts, but…projecting a little. Just enough for Fives to feel it, an edge of tranquility, a sense of peace and safety that Mace usually finds in the heart of the Temple. And, slowly, carefully, the tension in Fives’s body eases. His spinning thoughts quiet, and the rasps of his rough breaths against Mace's nape slowly deepen. There's no sharp drop as he collapses into sleep, just a steady slide into something like peace, and Mace matches their breaths, feels the curl of Fives’s arms around him tighten once more as Fives presses bodily into him and then goes still.

It’s certainly not where Mace expected to be when he was staring down his piles of paperwork earlier, but the almost painful relief as Fives’s mind drifts towards deep sleep is more than enough of a reason to be here. Mace gently slots their fingers together, smoothing out the rough edges of nightmares before they can fully form, and looks down.

Just above the edge of Fives’s bodysuit, he catches sight of raw-red skin, puffy and irritated, and pauses. When he carefully turns Fives’s hand enough to see the irritation, it’s almost a surprise to find a fresh tattoo there, five tally marks inked into Fives’s skin. The lines are different lengths, curving across the inside of his wrist, and the longest one is the thickest, ends in a jagged point that nearly touches the heel of Fives’s palm. The shortest one is at the end, a narrow, slanted line that cuts off abruptly, and something unsettled curls through Mace's senses, low and dark and foreboding.

He settles Fives’s hand back against his chest, closing his eyes in the low light. Behind him, Fives is deeply asleep, only an edge of dreaming to stir the silence of his mind, but Mace lies awake for a long, long while, the image of the tally marks stark and disquieting in his thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current update schedule, steeped in my hubris:
> 
> 2 February - The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Time-Travelers  
> 7 February - and love is a call to arms  
> 9 February - somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond  
> 14 February - these soldiers have sun-fired bones  
> 16 February - trade your heart for bones to know  
> 21 February - and love is a call to arms  
> 23 February - you will open your wounds (and make them a garden)  
> 28 February - these soldiers have sun-fired bones  
> 2 March - efface the footprints in the sands  
> 7 March - and love is a call to arms  
> 9 March - The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Time-Travelers  
> 14 March - these soldiers have sun-fired bones

Fives wakes, and he can't remember the last time he slept for so long.

He _feels_ like it’s been a while, deep down in his bones, like the hours of sleep are sweeping out the shakiness that’s settled there over the last few months. His head is fuzzy, but he feels more settled, too, and some of that vibrating tension has faded into the background. Each breath comes easier, and he presses his face into warm dark skin, pale cloth, and tightens his arms around Mace.

Mace is here. Mace is _alive_. Fives didn’t have to watch him die again, just a second too late to save him. He’s here in Fives's arms, and Fives is covering him, protecting him, and Mace is _letting_ him. It’s—not what Fives was expecting, but _good_ , and he breathes out, feeling the beat of Mace's heart underneath his fingers.

It would be too easy to think of terrible things right now, like Mace falling, fingers slipping out of Fives’s grip as Fives tried to haul him back up into the Chancellor’s office. But—

He just wants to stay like this, with Mace right here where he’s safest, Fives at his back, for the rest of this loop, no matter how long that is. And maybe, if Fives is really lucky, it will be a long one, or there won't be another loop at all, and saving Mace will really save the universe. It _feels_ like it should be equivalent, given how much Fives has focused on it these last few days.

Gently, carefully, mindful of the fact that Mace is still asleep, Fives shifts, pulls Mace up a little tighter into his arms so that he’s holding onto him completely. Mace is a big man, but he’s lankier than any of the clones, less broad, and Fives can surround him. And—it feels good. Fives _did this_. He actually managed to throw the whole thing off its axis and change something big. This—this is something that he never thought to try in any of the other loops, and probably wouldn’t have dared before this last one. But—

He just…remembered. That moment in the Chancellor’s office, when Anakin turned and betrayed them, betrayed _Mace_. Fives had thought that being there would be enough, a solid reminder of Anakin's other life, but it wasn’t. And Fives had stared at Mace, clinging to his hand above the impossible fall, and thought _you almost did it. you almost beat him_.

Mace had met his eyes in that moment like he _knew_ , and Fives had never interacted with him before, hadn’t known more than the vaguest outlines of who he was, hadn’t ever shared more than a word with him, but he’d seen that look in Mace's eyes, a recognition, a wash of surprise and _hope_.

In light of that, waking up back in the barracks on Coruscant, three months after his promotion to ARC, was the greatest relief in the galaxy.

This might _work_ , Fives thinks, desperate, still jittery with it. Mace can beat Palpatine. And Fives will be there the whole time, protecting him, keeping him alive. It might _work_.

He almost hopes Anakin tries to interfere. Fives is just a clone, just another trooper, but—he hopes Anakin tries to stop this. As soon as he does, Fives is going to prove to him exactly why Jango was called the Jedi-killer, and why all the clones were _designed_ to be Jedi-killers themselves. Anakin used them that way, was more than pleased to take advantage of their abilities when he wanted to pull the Republic down into rubble beneath Palpatine’s feet. Turning that around, using those same abilities against him—Fives should probably regret it, hesitate over it, but.

Palpatine might be the cause of all of this suffering, but Anakin was the trigger. Anakin _participated_ , without pause and without hesitation. He never cared about them at all, never thought of them as Human, as sentient, as deserving of anything, and Fives _knows_ , now, how to recognize all the warning flags that were scattered across the breadth of the war. Should have seen them, should have noticed the first time around, except no one _did_. It took Fives two more loops, two more betrayals, to finally realize what was happening.

Not this time. Not again. Anakin isn't going to get in the way, and Fives isn't going to let _anyone_ pull him away from Mace. No matter who it is, if they try, he’s going to react the way he was trained, and deal with the threat.

Spar will help. Even if he hasn’t taken Mandalore yet, Fives will tell him about the chips, about the Chancellor’s plans, and with as many of Jango’s memories as he has, he can help. Fives can convince him. Maybe he won't be _happy_ about it, but he’s still a clone. He’s one of them.

A hand settles loosely over Fives’s, curled over the back of his with their fingers laced. Fives doesn’t startle, mostly because Mace's skin is so warm, and the half-familiar calluses on his fingers make Fives feel like he _won_ , like he pulled Mace up as he was falling from the office and this is the aftermath. It’s not true, but the emotion settles like relief even so, and Fives wraps his arms around Mace a little more tightly, buries his face in the curve of his throat.

“Feeling better?” Mace asks quietly, and Fives snorts, can't help but smile a little.

“Would you offer droids the chance to surrender?” he asks, on a whim, because that’s the one moment that still stands out. Mace standing there in a shaft of light, lightsaber lit and ready, conviction in his eyes as he told the room full of battle droids that they could make a different choice.

“Yes,” Mace says without hesitation, without even having to think about it. “If I had the chance, and my troops weren’t going to be put in danger by it, I would make that offer.”

That’s the line. His troops. Fives’s throat feels tight, and his chest feels hot, and he clutches Mace to him with a bright-hot spark kindling somewhere inside of him. _Kriff_ but he wishes this had all happened differently, that Domino had ended up with the 91st. That he’d had Mace as his general the first time around, because then none of this would have happened.

Mace is his general now, though. Fives might still be wearing 501st blue, but Anakin doesn’t have any of his loyalty, won't get anything from Fives but a blaster bolt next time they meet. _Mace_ is his, and Fives has him in his arms, where he’s safe, got him off of Coruscant and away from danger and soon he can _tell him_. Tell him everything, all the tragedies that have happened, all the ways Anakin and Palpatine are going to betray the Order and the Republic and the clones. It might take him a while to _believe_ Fives, but—Fives is buying them time. No one will expect the Master of the Jedi Order to turn up on Mandalore, and Fives can keep him out of sight until he’s trained more, gotten ready to face Palpatine. And then—

Then they’ll stop Palpatine, and save the Jedi, and save the clones. That’s all Fives cares about.

“Fives?” Mace asks, a trace of concern in his voice, though he doesn’t pull away enough to turn and look. Fives is glad, because he has no idea what his face is doing, no desire to look Mace in the eye when he can't even get himself under control. But—it’s not the terrible, fractured kind of lack of control he’s been feeling for the last few days, like he’s on the verge of shaking apart completely. This is just…emotional. Not great, but not the worst thing ever, either.

“I'm…better,” he manages, and the steady, unwavering beat of Mace's heart under his fingers is like a lodestone, pulling him towards safety. “A lot better.”

Mace squeezes his hand lightly. “You needed sleep,” he says, like that can excuse Fives drugging him, electrocuting him, _kidnapping_ him.

Fives swallows, and he should sit up, talk to Mace, deal with things. They must be nearly at Jedha by now, if he slept for as long as it feels like he did. But instead, he curls a little tighter around Mace, clutching at him, and—it’s been a long time since he had anyone this close. He and Echo used to sleep like this, after bad missions, or when they'd been thinking too much about Cutup and Hevy and Droidbait. It’s a comfort, the closeness, _knowing_ that there's another person here with him in a way that can't be written off, but Fives just…hasn’t asked for it. Not since he woke up here again.

Echo left, twice in a row. He went with the Bad Batch and left Fives behind, and knowing that makes something small and angry and sad bury itself deep in Fives’s gut. It’s a reaction to the trauma, to changing, to seeing himself as different the same way the Batch does, but—

“Sorry, Mace,” he gets out, raw in his throat. “I'm sorry I hurt you, I just wanted to get you somewhere safe.”

There's no pause, not even a faint hesitation. “I understand,” Mace says calmly, his grip on Fives’s hand unwavering. “You’ve caused me no harm, Fives.”

“I _did_ ,” Fives says, and he shouldn’t be arguing with a general, but—he shouldn’t be kidnapping generals, either, and they're still here. “I—shocked you, and threatened you—”

“I forgive you for that,” Mace says, steady, and Fives kind of wants to cry. He presses his face into the curve of Mace's throat, tightens his grip, and the heartbeat under his hand doesn’t waver. If Mace objects to Fives acting like some sort of giant starfish, there's no sign. Just—forgiveness that Fives hasn’t earned.

“It’s for a reason,” he whispers. “It’s for a good reason, I swear, it’s _important_ or I never would have done it—”

“I believe you.” Mace shifts, tries to sit up, but Fives feels even that little motion like a kick in the teeth. He sucks in a harsh breath, jerks forward, rolling halfway on top of Mace and caging him in. It feels, in that moment, like if Mace pulls away he’s just going to _leave_ , and Fives knows it’s stupid and irrational, but he still presses Mace down, wraps himself around him, and there’s panic beating away in his chest.

“No,” he says, “no, please don’t leave, I can't—”

Mace doesn’t move beneath him, doesn’t struggle even though Fives has to be heavy. Instead, he slides a hand over, covers Fives’s where it rests on the mattress, and says calmly, “I'm not leaving, Fives. You have my word. I’ll stay with you until you tell me to go.”

The words are so _simple_ , but they're exactly what Fives needs to hear. They shake through him, rattle something loose, and he can feel some knot of tension unraveling. He breathes out, the pace of his heart slowing, and closes his eyes for a long second.

“You're…really good at that,” he manages after a moment, a flicker of self-directed amusement sharp in his chest. “Talking.”

Mace snorts softly. “You're likely the only one who would say so,” he says dryly, and this time when he pushes up, Fives lets him, slides off his back and tries not to think about how easily Mace _let him_ do that. He watches as Mace settles on the mattress, legs crossed, back to the wall, and—it’s not bad. Not exactly. There's no judgement in Mace's expression as he surveys Fives, not even a hint of disdain or wariness. His shirt is rumpled, and the ties have come loose, leaving a deep V in the cloth. He looks…relaxed, sleep-warm. Fives kind of wants to topple him back to the mattress and curl up around him again, sleep for another twelve hours and see how he feels at that point, since he feels so much better now.

But he can't. They need to keep moving, because even with Mace giving his word, and Fives trusting him, there's a whole galaxy out there he _can't_ trust.

“I can't tell you yet,” he says, cutting Mace off before he can ask. “We need—we’re still too close. I don’t know _how_ far his reach is, or what he can sense, and if he knows—if he figures out that _I_ know and comes after us—” He breaks off sharply, because he _knows_ he sounds crazy, and it makes his stomach turn. This is why Rex didn’t believe him. This is why Fox shot him, because he seemed unhinged, dangerous, insane, shrieking about conspiracies and locking his general behind a barrier.

Not his general. Not anymore.

Before he can apologize, or try to correct, Mace tilts his head, eyes narrowing. His gaze traces something Fives can't see through the air, and after a long moment, he asks, “Fives, have you ever heard of shatterpoints?”

Fives blinks, not expecting that. He frowns a little, trying to parse that out, and then asks, “Like, the point where things break?”

Mace inclines his head, shifting like he’s going to fold his hands into his sleeves, only to belatedly realize that he’s not wearing his outer tunics. It’s—strangely charming. “Yes,” he says. “But the Force ability specifically is what I meant. It applies to physical things, but to events as well.”

Fives has no idea what this is supposed to have to do with anything. “Where _events_ break?” he echoes, trying to see where Mace is going with this. “Like where things change?”

“Yes.” Mace's dark eyes go darker for a moment, and his mouth pulls, something like self-recrimination in his face. “When the war started, Count Dooku was its shatterpoint. If he had been killed on Geonosis, the entire conflict would have fallen apart within a few months.”

Fives blinks, hope rising. That means—if they can find Dooku, maybe—

Except Mace said _was_ , and he’s talking about something else entirely. Fives drags his attention back, filing that away to ask about later, and says, “So it’s _big_ changes. How to break a war, and things like that.”

Mace nods once, gaze sliding back to Fives and holding. “You're a shatterpoint, Fives,” he says bluntly. “Without you, many things fall apart, and I can't see where the ripples stop.”

Oh.

Fives swallows, hands fisting in the blankets. He hadn’t considered, really, how he would feel to a Jedi. They're empaths, and he knows that, but—not what it means. Not really. Anakin never seemed to notice, or care if he did, so it’s not something Fives has a frame of reference for. This might be a good chunk of the reason why Mace is here, though, and why he hasn’t even tried to resist. He thinks Fives is important.

And then, like a kick of sheer terror, Fives thinks of Palpatine, of being _on Coruscant_ with cameras everywhere, and his breath knots in his lungs. “I—can _every_ Force-sensitive see that?” he demands, starting to push up. “If—if he saw me on Coruscant and he can see that too and he _knows_ —”

Mace catches his wrist, squeezing lightly. “No,” he says, still perfectly calm. “I was born with the talent, and it can be cultivated, but it takes a great amount of effort for most Jedi to see such things, and it only works in person.” A pause, and he considers Fives for a moment, then says, “I assume the same would apply to Sith.”

Fives doesn’t flinch, just swallows and meets Mace's eyes. “I heard General Kenobi say the Force was clouded on Coruscant,” he says. “And—I thought if I got you away from that, you’d probably believe me, _and_ I could keep you safe.”

For a moment, Mace doesn’t answer, like he’s weighing his words. “The clouding of the Force is spread across the galaxy as a whole,” he says finally. “It’s a type of Sith sorcery, so that the Sith Lord can hide himself in plain sight. We’ve never found the source of the spell, or where it must be anchored.”

The relief that shakes through Fives is almost gutting. “It’s anchored somewhere,” he repeats, and there are already plans rising, spinning through his head. If they can lift the spell, if unclouding the Force is that simple—the whole Order will be able to see what’s happening. Mace will still have to face Palpatine, but maybe, maybe it won't be _alone_. Maybe other Jedi will finally notice the chips, or be able to find Dooku or Grievous. Maybe that will be _enough_.

“Yes,” Mace confirms, still watching him. “We don’t know how far the Sith Lord’s reach extends, or what abilities he might have, but clouding the Force is a skill the Order has encountered before, if never on this level.”

Fives can work with that. He nods, slotting the information away alongside the idea of shatterpoints, and he’ll have to go over things later, figure out how it fits, but this is a good start. “I'm—I'm not going to tell you until we’re in the Outer Rim. There's—there's a place that’s probably safe. Once we get there, I’ll tell you _everything_.”

“All right,” Mace says, and glances towards the door. “We’re on Jedha. I assume we’re going to find another transport here?”

Fives breathes in, out. The plan. He has a plan. This might work. Especially now that he has Mace's word that he won't leave. Just knowing that makes everything…simpler. Easier. Less like an insurmountable task and more like…steps. Hard, but—Fives is an ARC. He can handle this.

“I have—I have credits for disguises,” he says. “As pilgrims. And we can take one of the ships headed into Hutt space, to Nar Shaddaa, and then change again, so that no one can follow us.”

Mace inclines his head, then slides off the bed and reaches for his tunics. “Lando is on his way,” he says, and Fives winces. Looking back, he’s a little surprised Lando didn’t just dump them with the nearest authorities, given how sketchily Fives was acting on Corellia. He pulls his armor on, familiar as breathing, and then grabs his blaster, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Mace—” he starts, and then abruptly realizes what he’s saying and twitches. “I— _sir_ , I mean, I'm sorry—”

“My name is fine,” Mace says. “This hardly seems like a situation for military titles.”

Because Fives _kidnapped_ him. But—Mace promised to stay, and Fives can believe that. He swallows, but nods, and says carefully, “Mace. I—thank you.” Because it’s a name, and that _means_ something. Ranks are good, and they show respect, and they're what the Jedi deserve, but—a personal name means something else entirely.

Fives probably hasn’t earned this one, but. _Still_.

“Mace,” he repeats, a guilty bit of thrill. “Thank you, sir. I'm sorry, but—thank you.”

Mace doesn’t ask why, or try to brush the words off, which makes something settle in Fives’s gut. Instead, he considers them gravely, then offers Fives his hand. Gratefully, Fives takes it, pulls, and Mace doesn’t resist when Fives wraps his arms around him, clutches him close. Instead, he wraps an arm around Fives’s back in return, and Fives wishes he were still out of armor, that he could feel it clearly. But—just this is good. Mace is good. Fives buries his face in his shoulder and holds on, and Mace curls a hand around the back of his head, like Fives is something valuable, like _he’s_ the one who should be protected.

“I'm glad to help you, Fives,” Mace says, and it makes Fives’s eyes burn hot, like he’s going to cry. He clutches Mace tighter for a moment, then takes a shuddering breath and loosens his arms a little.

“I’ll get you somewhere safe, I promise,” he says. “This time you’ll survive. I can save you this time.”

There's a pause, but before Fives can even lift his head, Mace makes a sound of agreement. “Thank you for protecting me,” he says, grave, and Fives just—

If he has to die to keep Mace safe, he _will_.

“Perhaps,” Mace says, calm, “we should leave Lando to his next business and find a transport. He seems the patient type, but it will be nightfall soon.”

It should feel like a rejection, but Mace's fingers brush Fives’s curls before his hand falls away, and that one simple touch is enough to settle the edge of alarm that was about to rise. Taking a breath, Fives nods, pulls back. He hauls his kit up onto his shoulders, settling it, and—he needs to make sure to get a bag or a case big enough for his armor, because he can't leave it behind. Smarter, maybe, but—

It’s _his_. Fives doesn’t have anything else except his name and his memories, and he’s not about to abandon his armor.

“I didn’t look up places we could stay,” he admits in a rush, skin prickling. It’s a failing, a vulnerability in the mission. Uncertainty could get them killed, but at the same time, he hadn’t been willing to risk the Sith finding anything in his records. The order shouldn’t be something he can use for anything except killing Jedi, but he’s a _Sith_. There's no saying he can't just manipulate people’s minds, get clones to check into everything Fives was doing. And—they're already going to have Lightning Squadron after them. Fives is just hoping that he can get far enough ahead to lose them completely.

Mace doesn’t look perturbed by his confession. “This is the Pilgrim Moon. I'm sure there will be plenty of lodgings if we can't find a shuttle leaving tonight.” He keys the door open half a second before Lando can ring the chime, raising a brow. “Captain. I see we’ve landed.”

Lando gives Mace a grin that makes Fives’s fingers itch, and on instinct Fives reaches out, grabs the edge of Mace's hood before he can stop himself and pulls it up over his head. He tugs the other credit chip he promised Lando from his belt, offering it, and says, “Thanks.”

Beaming, Lando scoops it up and makes it disappear. “My pleasure. Always happy to help with a dramatic escape,” he says easily, then pauses, considering them both. “You know, I've never been to Jedha before. Thought I might stick around for a week or two, take in the sights. If you need someone to get you wherever you're going next, look me up.”

It’s _tempting_. Fives almost opens his mouth and asks about a flight to Mandalore, almost pulls Lando further into their plans, because he’s been entirely inoffensive and reliable so far, leagues better than what Fives was expecting when he decided to hire a smuggler. But—

It’s too much of a risk. Lando already knows too much, saw a bigger piece of their plan than anyone else has, and Fives can't risk him knowing any more of it.

“Thank you,” Mace says before he can refuse. “We weren’t planning to pass back this way, however.”

Lando shrugs, and that smile is more charming than it should be when he’s got a gold half-cape slung around his shoulders. “Thought I’d offer,” he says. “Pleasure doing business with both of you.”

“I appreciate it,” Fives says, and that at least is entirely honest. He offers his hand, and with a smile Lando clasps his wrist, squeezing firmly. “Captain.”

“Fives,” Lando returns, and it’s warm. “Watch out for pickpockets.”

Fives feels himself flush, and he rolls his eyes. It makes Lando laugh, and he waves as Fives tugs Mace on down the hall, pulling his bucket on as he goes. Mace follows, radiating amusement, and he keeps his hood on, putting a hand up to hold it against the whirl of icy wind that comes moaning up the ramp.

“Kriff,” Fives says, caught off guard, and activates the thermals in his undersuit. “It’s _cold_.”

“Jedha is in eternal winter,” Mace says, raising his head to study the edge of the towering sandstone buildings that ring the spaceport. There's something strange on his face, a distance, a settling. As Fives watches, he breathes out, eyes closing for a long moment, and then says, “The entire moon is a frozen desert, but…beautiful.”

Fives glances at him, then out at the city they're approaching, and—he supposes he can see it. The streets are narrow beneath the spires, and the air is thin and bracing, the sandstone around them red-gold. It’s not as loud as most cities Fives has been in, and there's a strange sense to it that he can't quite put his finger on.

“Sure,” he says, a little bemused at the question. “This is the Holy City, right?”

“Very holy,” Mace says without looking away from the city, though when Fives takes his arm he automatically slides his own through Fives’s and holds on. “This entire moon is veined with kyber, and more of it surfaces beneath the city than anywhere else.”

Kyber. Like a lightsaber crystal. Fives gives Mace a sideways look, taking in the look he’s wearing, and asks, “You can feel that? But—aren’t they just rocks?”

Before Mace can answer, a laugh cracks the quiet of the spaceport, too close, and Fives twitches hard, spinning to face the threat. A hand catches his blaster as it rises, though, and Mace takes a deliberate step in front of him, right between Fives and the man just rising from beneath an archway of stone where the city starts.

“Kyber is rock like you are a piece of meat,” the man says, and his staff thumps the ground, sweeps out in a quick brush. Fives tenses, ready to drag Mace back, get him to safety, but the stranger stops, cocking his head faintly as he considers them. His eyes are pale blue, don’t focus on them, but he smiles and says with certainty, “A Jedi on Jedha. A soul who needs my guardianship, at last.”

Fives bristles, opens his mouth, but a quiet snort stops him. Mace releases him, stepping forward, and bows, his hands folded together in front of him.

“Guardian Îmwe,” Mace says brusquely, though there's no tension that Fives can see in his body. “Last I checked, harassing pilgrims wasn't one of the duties of your order.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current update schedule, newly revamped:
> 
> 9 March - The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Time-Travelers  
> 15 March - I got trouble in mind  
> 16 March - efface the footprints in the sands  
> 22 March - trade your heart for bones to know  
> 23 March - it’s not the waking, it’s the rising  
> 29 March - The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Time-Travelers  
> 30 March - I got trouble in mind  
> 5 April - efface the footprints in the sands  
> 6 April - trade your heart for bones to know  
> 12 April - it’s not the waking, it’s the rising  
> 13 April - The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Time-Travelers  
> 19 April - I got trouble in mind OR you will open your wounds (and make them a garden) if the former has been completed  
> 20 April - efface the footprints in the sands

“General,” Grey asks warily, “exactly how much trouble are you going to get in for hanging up on the Chancellor?”

“I didn’t hang up on the Chancellor. We just lost the signal,” Depa says, perfectly at peace. Her version of innocence is closer to merry, while Mace's is all bland, stone-faced dignity, but Ponds doesn’t buy either one. He trades looks with Styles over her head, and Styles at least is grinning.

Grey rubs the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes like he’s counting to ten. “General. No one is going to buy you just saying _oops I lost the signal_ —”

“A sacrifice of dignity in the name of the greater good,” Depa says, clearly unbothered. “Mace's kidnapping takes precedence over being called to a meeting with the Security Council, I'm afraid.” Her smile only has a hint of mischief, but it’s still enough to make Grey sigh like he’s been martyred.

She’s like Mace, Ponds thinks with amusement. Just _weaponized_.

“Even generals can't be penalized for equipment malfunctions,” Echo says, from where he’s tense and practically ready to lunge on one of the rear seats. When Ponds casts him a look, he looks entirely unrepentant, raising his chin. “It’s in the regs. Equipment failure is a valid excuse for missing a meeting.”

“I knew I liked you,” Depa tells him, amused, and with a gentle shudder the ship comes in for a landing. She takes a moment to shut the engine down, then glances back, and says, “Commander Ponds, if you would take the lead?”

Ponds breathes out, rueful. It’s blatantly an attempt to placate him and give him something to do. That doesn’t mean it isn't _working_ , though. “Thank you, General. Come on, ARC. You can help me figure out where your best friend would take the general he kidnapped.”

Echo grimaces, but he rises and pulls his bucket on without hesitation. “Something _is_ wrong with Fives,” he says. “He wouldn’t do this. Not if he was okay.”

Ponds will admit he cares a lot less about Fives’s mental state than the potential harm that’s come to his general. Mace gave up his _codes_. He’s been alone with Fives for going on two days now, and Ponds’s skin _crawls_ at the thought of what Fives might have done to him in that time. After all, odds are Fives defected, went to the side of the Separatists just like Sergeant Slick from the same legion once did, and he just decided to take Mace out with him on his way to Dooku's side.

Ponds’s breath shakes, and he pulls his own helmet on, not waiting for Grey, Styles, and Depa as he marches down the ramp. Echo is barely a step behind him, clearly just as eager to find Fives and Mace, if for a different reason. He might be a problem, Ponds thinks, given how loyal he seems; if it comes down to a choice between Mace and Fives, Ponds isn't entirely sure who he’ll pick. Something to bring up with Depa, maybe. She’ll be able to confirm it, at least, or tell Ponds he’s being paranoid. 

“There,” Echo says, before Ponds can get too twisted up in his own thoughts. He points ahead of them, three bays to the left, where a light assault cruiser devoid of the usual Coruscanti diplomatic red is sitting. Ponds nods grimly, pulling up the skeleton key code the techs gave him and accessing its systems, and a moment later the ramp descends. There's no reaction from inside, no signs of movement, but Ponds readies his blaster, scans for heat signatures.

Nothing. The whole ship is cold.

“It’s been at least a day since anyone was here,” Depa says from behind him, thoughtful more than alarmed. Ponds knows it’s a Jedi thing, but—he’d have expected her to be up in arms, too, and ready to fight, given how ferociously she loves Mace.

Styles grunts, and he puts his shoulder to Ponds’s as they head up into the belly of the ship, Echo to their left. “Think he just grabbed the first ship he could find? Or is he going to come back to this one?”

“Bad idea to stay on Corellia,” Echo says grimly. “Anywhere in the Core would be a bad idea, but staying somewhere with this much security…”

“Not that it did any good,” Grey mutters, and when Ponds turns his head slightly, he can see him poking at a pile of glittery brocade cloth. “Guess the Guard speeder wasn’t the only thing he swiped from the Senate. Disguise?”

Depa makes a low sound of amusement, leaning down to pick it up. She holds the coat up to the light, smirking, and says, “It’s about Mace's size. He must have looked _hideous_.”

It’s got more gold than Ponds can ever imagine Mace wearing, and he winces, trying not to think of his general getting stripped of his Jedi robes, dressed in _that_. “Port security feeds will be a fight to get, probably,” he says, grim. “Corellia’s not going to want to give them up, given the usual _clientele_ they have buying their ships.”

“We’ll convince them.” Grey glances up towards the cockpit, then tips his head at it. “Styles, check the logs. Fives might have looked up wherever he was going next.”

“Sir.” Styles slings his blaster over his back, heading for the pilot’s seat. “You checking the port?”

“Someone might remember seeing a trooper and a Jedi,” Grey confirms, and takes a breath. “Hard to miss General Windu, if you're looking.”

Depa doesn’t comment, though when Ponds glances at her, she looks like she’s considering something. Like she feels Ponds attention, she blinks, then casts him a quick smile, tugging her hood up over her braids.

“Towards the east entrance,” she says, with the steady certainty that all Jedi seem to have. “I think we’ll find something there.”

Grey nods curtly. “Styles, good?”

“I’ll comm you if I find anything,” Styles says over his shoulder, and Ponds doesn’t wait. He leads the way out of the stolen ship, then right towards the closest entrance to the city.

“There are Jedi here, aren’t there, sir?” Echo asks quietly, falling into step with him. “Can we ask them for help?”

From behind them, Depa snorts. “The Corellian Jedi have very strong opinions about their service to Corellia over the Republic,” she says dryly. “I doubt they would be swayed from their duties to help us search, but I can contact Master Halcyon and see if he felt anything of note yesterday.”

Ponds’s gauntlets creak around the grip of his blaster, and he has to consciously breathe out and loosen his grip. “If you wouldn’t mind, General,” he says, because giving a general an actual _order_ is probably a step too far, even if he’s worried. When Echo casts him a look, he ignores it, sweeping a look over the automated security booth and checking for any signs that the droid there will be willing to answer their questions. It ignores them, though, running through landing procedures over a comm, and beyond that, Depa simply breezes past it, heading down the street to where the city proper starts. She’s not moving _fast_ , but there's definite purpose in her steps, and Ponds follows closely, not sure what she felt but more than willing to trust her sense of things.

“If I remember my mercenary-hunting days correctly,” Depa says thoughtfully, “there’s a cantina nearby that’s rather popular with smugglers. We might try that one and see if they stopped there, either to resupply or on their way elsewhere.”

 _They_. Like Mace had any choice in any of this. Ponds breathes through his nose, not letting himself react, and then says, “Yes, sir. I can—”

A body collides with him, and there's a yelp, pure pain and offense. Ponds jerks back, startled, and spins, just as a kid hits the ground on his back, groaning. Alarm spikes, and Ponds slings his blaster over his back, crouching to offer the kid a hand. “Hey, kid, you okay? Shouldn’t be running when there are this many people around.”

“It’s my planet, I’ll run if I want to,” the boy says sourly, sitting up on his own and rubbing the back of his head. Ponds feels a flicker of worry, and he reaches out, tipping the kid’s head forward to check for blood. He can't see any, just dirty brown hair, and breathes out in relief.

“It is your planet, but I'm wearing _armor_ ,” he says ruefully. “Better not to crash into that, right?”

“I guess,” the boy allows grudgingly, and scrambles to his feet. He’s moving steadily enough, so Ponds doesn’t try to stop him, just watches with concern as he turns—

And pulls up short with a yelp as Depa catches him by the collar.

“Well now,” she says, amused, and spins the boy back around, crouching down in front of him with a smile. “If I turned you over and shook you, my friend, what would fall out?”

The boy freezes, watching her like she’s dangerous. “What?” he demands. “What are you talking about, I'm just—”

Deftly, Depa catches his arm, and pulls two of Ponds’s protein rations right out of his sleeve. The kid hisses in offense, but doesn’t fight back, and Depa dangles them in front of him with a raised brow.

“These,” she says with good humor, “aren’t the first protein rations you’ve swiped, are they, my little friend?”

The kid stares at her with narrowed eyes for a long moment, then huffs. “I didn’t _steal_ the last one,” he says. “It was _given_ to me.”

“General,” Ponds says, stepping forward, and there's a flicker of sympathy low in his chest, familiar and well-practiced after seeing so much of the pain in the Outer Rim, and only being able to help so much. “He can keep them, I've got more—”

“Given to you,” Depa repeats, and hums. “By a tall Korun man, in robes like mine?”

Ponds’s breath knots in his chest, and he freezes completely.

The boy looks from Ponds to Depa, then over at Grey and Echo. “Yeah,” he says, like he’s daring Depa to argue. “And a guy in armor like that.”

He points right at Echo, and Ponds thinks of Mace kneeling down in front of the initiates in the Temple, putting himself in between Fives and the younglings, and wants to _break something_. Mace probably did the same here, saved a pickpocket and then _fed him_ , because of course that’s something Mace would do—

“Was there anyone else with them?” Depa asks. “If you pickpocketed them—”

“I just ran into them, I wasn’t _stealing_ —”

“—you must have followed them at least a ways beforehand,” Depa continues, like she can't hear him, though her smile is full of mischief. “Did you see where they were headed?”

The kid freezes, looking from Depa to Ponds again. Something canny crosses his face, and he meets Depa's eyes defiantly and says, “Yeah. And I saw what ship they took, too. But I'm not gonna tell you unless you take me with you when you leave.”

Depa cocks her head, but before she can say anything Ponds steps forward. “General,” he offers, and—it’s a kneejerk response, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less sincere when he says, “I’ll take responsibility for him. He can come. If he knows where General Windu was taken…”

Depa only flicks him a glance before she inclines her head. “All right,” she allows, and then asks the boy, “Your family?”

The kid pulls a face. “Just the _gang_ ,” he says. “My dad left me here.”

Ponds winces, but reaches up, pulling his bucket off and tucking it under his arm. He crouches down in front of the boy again, offering his hand, and says, “My name is Ponds. If you want to come with us, you can, but I need to find my general. He’s _my_ family.”

The kid looks from his hand to his face, then hesitates. Pulls a face, grabs Ponds’s wrist in an awkward grip, and says, “I'm Han. You _promise_ I can come?”

“Yeah,” Ponds says with a smile. “No matter what you tell us, you can come.”

Han studies his face for a long moment, then nods. “Okay,” he says defiantly. “I'm going to _make_ you mean that. They were with a smuggler, and he had a ship called the _Millennium Falcon_.”

Ponds glances back at Grey, who immediately raises his comm and relays the information to Styles in a murmur. “Thanks, Han,” he says, relieved, and squeezes his wrist gently, then rises to his feet again. “Come on, our ship’s back this way.”

Depa chuckles, rising as well, and she offers Han the protein rations he swiped. “Here, my friend,” she says. “You’ve saved us several days of searching with your quick fingers.”

Han looks deeply pleased with himself as he takes the bars. “You're welcome,” he says loftily, and Ponds chuckles, hooking a hand around his shoulder. The relief bubbling up in his chest makes him almost dizzy.

“Want to tell me about this smuggler?” he asks, already adding another name to his list of people who are going to get aggressively shaken down as soon as he claps eyes on them.

Han makes a derisive sound, but he sticks right next to Ponds as Ponds leads them back towards the spaceport. “He had a dumb yellow cape. And his smile was stupid. And he looked at the guy in armor funny. An’ he called me a _native Corellian pickpocket_. I'm not a pickpocket, I'm a _thief_.”

“Sounds like an asshole,” Echo mutters from behind them, and Ponds can't help but agree.

Chirrut smiles, pleased and a little sly. “Not my job? Maybe. But wandering the Holy City isn't one of yours, Master Jedi,” he says. “What Jedi has time to play pilgrim these days?”

“No Jedi does,” Mace says, raising a brow, and he’s hardly one to pick an argument with most of the Guardians of the Whills, but—Chirrut enjoys it, and Mace can't say he minds all that much either. “We’re simply passing through.”

Chirrut groans in dismay, though his mischief flares bright through his mind. “Of course a _Jedi_ takes no time to appreciate the beauty of the Holy City—”

“I was under the impression that I should leave you something to teach me, Guardian Îmwe,” Mace says, perfectly cool.

Chirrut's laugh is bright like a bell, and he steps forward, reaching out. “Your trooper is loud,” he says, and Mace clasps his forearm, feeling the strength of his grip, the familiar calluses. It’s been years since he was last on Jedha, but Chirrut at least hasn’t changed.

“My trooper is in full armor, and at least he isn't lurking around the spaceport to startle pilgrims,” Mace tells him.

“Something else I could teach you,” Chirrut counters. “ _Taste_.”

Mace snorts. “The temple’s head would argue otherwise,” he says, and Chirrut makes a sound like he’s been mortally offended. Before he can counter, Mace raises a brow at him, and says, “If your objection is to the presence of a trooper, Guardian Îmwe—”

Chirrut snorts. “Ugly armor!” he says, like it’s a damning indictment, and thumps his staff lightly against Fives’s shin. “There's no craftsmanship! No care!”

“Craft me some yourself, then, and I’ll wear it,” Fives says, unimpressed, and casts a sideways look at Mace. Mace doesn’t need to be able to see his face to read it. “GAR standard is what we all get, so that’s what we use.”

“I could poke my stick right through it,” Chirrut says pointedly, though an instant later he switches topics entirely and tells Mace, “The abbess is in the desert, visiting the Catacombs. Many restless spirits, these days.”

He could mean the ghosts that are supposed to haunt the Catacombs of Cadera, or he could mean the abbess, or he could mean something else entirely. It’s always hard to tell with Chirrut. Mace inclines his head, tugging his hood forward against another icy whirl of wind, and says, “We don’t plan to be here long. Are there any public transports leaving tonight?”

Chirrut cocks his head. “No warships,” he says, light, and when Mace raises an unimpressed brow at him, he huffs. “The last one departs in ten minutes, on the other side of the city. How many lost skills do you have, Jedi?”

“Not teleportation,” Mace says dryly, glancing over at Fives. Fives hesitates, and Mace can feel the flicker of panic that would have overwhelmed him before. He manages to contain it, though, to push it to the side, and takes a breath.

“Then we need to find somewhere to stay,” he says, only to hesitate again, flicking a glance at Mace like he’s waiting for an objection. Mace is hardly about to raise one, though; Fives is the one with their plan, who knows where they're going, who knows what the risks are. And clearly there _are_ risks, or he wouldn’t be acting like this.

Chirrut brightens. “My services required by a Jedi?” he asks, smiling. “Today is a fine day. The Force guides me to good things, and gives me wisdom even the Jedi cannot hold—”

Mace puts a hand on Fives’s arm before he can bristle. “Guardian Îmwe, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your sunset prayers,” he says dryly. “If you’ll point us in the right direction—”

“Never,” Chirrut says with confidence. “My duty is to guide the steps of pilgrims across the Holy City, and see that the Force keeps them safe. How could I do less for the Je’daii Master of the Order?”

Mace raises a brow. “No more the Je’daii than the Guardians of the Whills are wandering storytellers,” he says, mild, and Chirrut laughs.

“Deep roots, deep roots,” he says easily, and turns. “Come, Jedi Master, trooper. This Guardian will see you to safe lodgings in the Holy City.”

“Thank you, Guardian Îmwe,” Mace says, and when Fives looks like he’s getting tense, Mace takes his arm. It earns him a quick glance, but an instant later Fives grips his forearm tightly, moving with him when Mace turns to follow Chirrut.

“Je’daii?” Fives asks quietly. “Is that the local dialect, or—?”

“The precursor to the Jedi Order as it exists today,” Mace says. “They believed in balancing the Light and Dark sides of the Force to the point that they would exile those who strayed too far to the Dark or stepped too far into the Light. A civil war in their order nearly destroyed them, and in the wake of it a splinter group left and founded the Jedi Order.”

“Oh,” Fives says warily. “And when he calls you a Je’daii, it’s—”

“Description!” Chirrut says, loudly and pointedly, without looking back. “You walk the lines of balance and risk falling—”

“My feet are steady,” Mace counters, because he knows himself. After Haruun Kal, there's risk, because there always is, but Mace knows where his own lines fall, and what he’ll suffer before he crosses them.

“ _Boring_ ,” Chirrut complains, and then pauses, turning his head. Mischief flashes across his face, and he makes a sharp turn down a narrow street, picking up his pace. “This way, come!”

Mace, well able to guess what this is about, doesn’t sigh, though the urge is there. Chirrut is too much like Depa for him to feel anything but mild annoyance and amusement, though, and he follows readily, staying close to Fives’s side.

“Do you object to a chase?” he asks, and before Fives can stiffen adds, “I believe Chirrut is supposed to be in prayers right now, and he’s avoiding anyone who might tell him that.”

Fives pauses, startled, and then snorts. “Sounds like me and Echo avoiding cleaning duty with Hevy,” he says. “You trust him?”

“Yes,” Mace says without hesitation. “The Guardians of the Whills protect pilgrims in the Holy City, and guard the Temple of the Kyber. They're closely allied with the Jedi.”

“Only if the Jedi can keep up,” Chirrut calls back, and spins to hurry down another narrow alley, right towards a dead end against a tall stone wall. Without hesitation, he plants his staff, leaps, rebounds off the side of the building and drops right over the wall.

“Isn't he _blind_?” Fives asks in surprise, and lets go of Mace's arm.

“Yes,” Mace says. “Would you like me to lift you, Fives?”

Fives slants a glance at him, and there's a flicker of something bright across his mind, like a challenge and the acceptance of it. Like relief at something physical that he can overcome, Mace thinks, and Fives shakes his head. “Need a hand up, sir?” he asks, and Mace snorts and quickens his steps, leaping the wall in an easy twist and dropping to the ground on the other side. A moment later there's a thump, and Fives hauls himself over the top of the wall and drops without any apparent trouble. ARC, Mace thinks, and inclines his head in acknowledgement, not able to fight a small smile.

“Hurry!” Chirrut calls from the mouth of the alley. “There’s a long way to go across the city, and the night will be cold.”

Mace snorts quietly, not fooled, but follows, and Fives keeps pace with him, one eye on Chirrut and half his attention behind them. “Is there actually someone after him?” he asks, and as if in answer, there's an annoyed shout of Chirrut's name from the other street. Chirrut promptly turns right, hits the edge of the walkway they're on, and vaults over the side, dropping to the next level.

Fives laughs like it’s been startled out of him. “Oh,” he says. “Never mind.”

Mace rolls his eyes, but drops from the edge as well, turning to make sure Fives can manage the fall. He does it easily, though, landing and rolling back to his feet, and this time he’s the one in front as they follow Chirrut down another twisting, narrow street. Mace can feel the edge of focus to his thoughts, how movement distracts, channels. There are quick flickers of sense-memory, only half-felt, of battlefields and fighting in cities, of Anakin's back, and Mace can't help a flicker of concern, deep in his chest.

It’s clear that Fives was loyal once. Mace has heard Anakin's stories about his favorite pair of ARC troopers and all the trouble he’s gotten into with them. There’s never been even a hint that Fives disliked him, but Mace knows what he felt on the first ship, when he mentioned Anakin's name, and the glimpses he’s seen. Dark memories of troopers marching, and talk of the Sith Lord, and—

Those words just a few minutes ago. _This time you’ll survive. I can save you this time_.

Mace isn't a man easily unnerved, but those words were almost enough to manage it.

There was no waver, no doubt. Fives believes what he’s seen without hesitation or reserve, and the crawling certainty that won't leave Mace's thoughts says that something _happened_. The Force twists around Fives in ways Mace has never seen before, and the fact that he’s just come into focus _more_ in the hours since he marched into Mace's office makes Mace sure that it really is him who’s changing things. Fives is a shatterpoint, but—active. Every motion makes the future twist a little more, and it doesn’t feel like a dark thing.

If anything, the cracks Fives is forming feel like _light_. Like light through the darkness that’s stifled the galaxy for too long, and looking at him too closely, now that the ebb of panic and despair is tempered with a little more stability, feels like looking into the sun. Mace isn't quite sure how to take it, except a certainty that he can't let Fives be stopped or taken by anyone.

“General!” Fives says, and he tugs Mace sideways around a freestanding pillar, then leaps another wall. Instinct has Mace reaching out, easing his fall just slightly as he follows Fives down. Ahead of them, Chirrut turns, and he’s laughing, perfectly familiar with the streets and cocky in his certainty that he’s escaping.

“ _Slow_ , Jedi!” he calls. “Will you let a _Guardian_ beat you?”

Mace pulls Fives to a stop in the middle of the street, and says, “No, Guardian Îmwe. But I don’t believe it’s me you have to worry about.”

Chirrut is no fool; he jerks back, staff coming up, but a hand catches it, hauls it down and forward, pulling Chirrut along with it. “ _Chirrut_!” another Guardian hisses. “You were supposed to be at prayers an _hour_ ago, not wandering the city—”

“Not _wandering_ ,” Chirrut defends, though he’s grinning. “Doing a duty, a duty! Who else was going to greet the Master of the Order?”

The other Guardian jerks, eyes widening, and spins. His gaze lands on Mace, and immediately he bows. “Master Windu!”

“Guardian,” Mace returns, amused, and bows back. “Chirrut was showing us to lodgings. I'm sorry to have kept him.”

The Guardian flushes, embarrassment sharp. “Forgive me, Master Windu,” he says gruffly. “I wasn’t aware. He didn’t _comm_.”

That last is directed squarely at Chirrut, who scoffs. “I was _working_ , Baze,” he says, and Baze makes a deeply skeptical sound that earns a wounded expression from Chirrut.

Before Chirrut can protest his innocence any further, though, Baze turns to Mace again, and says, “Master Windu. Let me help guide you to the pilgrim’s quarters in the Temple of the Kyber. I don’t know where Chirrut was going, but they are closest.”

“Thank you, Guardian,” Mace returns, and flicks a glance at Fives. Fives hesitates, but nods, and Mace says, “We would be honored. But our presence here is meant to be a quiet thing.”

“The Guardians of the Whills will keep your secret,” Baze says formally, and straightens. “A mission, Master Windu?”

“A very important one,” Mace confirms, and that at least isn't exaggeration at all. He lets Fives take his arm again, a low pulse of wariness rising, and lays a hand on Fives’s in return.

The Force bends under his fingertips, and like this, from so close, Fives is a shatterpoint a thousand fractures deep. It makes Mace think of the tattoo on his wrist, the jagged lines, the words.

 _This time you’ll survive. I can save you this time_.

Disquiet prickles, even more so than the cold. Mace breathes through it, and as Fives pulls him on, following Chirrut and Baze as they bicker quietly, he contains the urge to touch the spot where that tattoo rests beneath Fives’s armor.


End file.
